


Unshattered

by erde



Series: From the ashes [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Fix-It, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Relationship(s), Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Strained Relationships, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-10 05:59:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 98,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6942619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erde/pseuds/erde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>It's really a split of a second, but for a moment there both of them remain in silence staring at each other, and it's a throwback to that moment in Siberia when a truce seemed more likely than shit hitting the fan.</i> </p><p>Steve picks up the pieces from their relationship and tries to make them better. As the official tinker of things, Tony isn't happy with Steve's shoddy work. At first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Waking up is heavy and slow, like floating adrift on a sea full of wrecked hulls and rusty scrap parts—no movement forward, just sinking and sinking before making it to the surface by chance. It's also out of the ordinary for him. He usually wakes up with a start, but today opening his eyes is an exercise in willpower, and although he runs on sheer resolve and genius on the regular, it's also about self-preservation. God only knows what he might dream about if he keeps on sleeping, and given that it's a decidedly obnoxious thing to find your heart lurching on you so many times a day, why take a chance?

But he doesn't really have a choice in the matter because that's exactly what his heart does next, though with good reason. He's not alone, Tony realizes, and the thought is sobering. He's not alone and he's been slow to react like an idiot when he could be in _danger_ and—

And then he finds Cap— _Rogers,_ there's a difference—hovering over him, and something catches in his throat because he knows it's coming, the shield is coming down on Tony any moment now like a guillotine, except that there's no cold here, only warmth. Tony blinks, his brain on overdrive and flying blind because he can't even ask FRIDAY for help, he can't even speak, and then he truly looks at Rogers, who's dozing undisturbed as if Tony weren't losing his goddamn mind right next to him, and Tony can only gape. _Typical_ Rogers.

For a moment, Tony doubts whether this isn't a scenario implemented through BARF, but he's too aware for that. And he would have never made it so that the light filtering through the windows touched Rogers just so, putting such a ridiculous halo around him that it makes Tony's stomach twist in something he can't quite describe. He would have made him look as ordinary as the last time, as if his looks didn't need further enhancement because they don't, and the implicit admission of weakness brings him shame.

It humiliates him to admit that he was weak enough to misuse state-of-the-art technology on the memory of someone who didn't deserve it and on an incident that paled in the face of actual traumatic experiences, a subject he knows a little about, thank you very much. But most of all, it shames him to know that it was an abject failure, a complete waste of resources. He was just as broken after having a virtual replica of Steve tell him the truth, as much as he had been in the beginning. 

But if this isn't a dream nor the reinterpretation of a memory, then what the hell is it? How can he begin to explain why Steve Rogers is there, adding insult to injury by sleeping _peacefully_ in Tony's face and closing in on his personal space when nobody invited him to crash on his lab? Not only that, he's also _touching_ Tony. His fingers are warm on Tony's wrist while Tony's own hand is holding onto Rogers' shirt, and Tony's seriously done going from whiplash to whiplash in the roller-coaster that has been waking up today, not to mention that it comes in addition to the splitting headache that's making all of his face pulse as if it had a life of its own. Because he did make use of BARF again, now that he's fully awake and able to remember, but it was his mother that he last saw, and all of a sudden the bile comes up again and doesn't go away.

He remembers everything and the warmth of Rogers' hand stings at once. It's just pain, that's all it is. It suggests a kind of intimacy that he would have welcomed oh so many times back when he didn't know any better, but that he finds painful in excess now. And if he turns on his side and shoves Rogers out of the narrow bed in the process, it can't really come as a surprise, can it? He just doesn't play well with others, especially if said others stick a knife in his back and a shield in his chest at the same time.

A thud follows, then a dazed "Tony?" and he wonders for how long he can pretend to be still sleeping. But Rogers isn't stupid, he'll figure it out.

"So you're still there," Tony says. "Out of spite, I suppose."

" _Tony,_ " Rogers says, and it comes out nuanced. Tony picks up at least a dozen unspoken things in there because there's still a small part of him that is in tune with Rogers despite the mindboggling, serum-augmented idiocy that comes with the package, but the matter of the fact is that he doesn't want to hear any of them.

"Your grace period is almost over and the clock is ticking. What are you going to do about it?" Tony says sharply, clear-cut, and to the point, and it's a small relief to see that Rogers remains on the floor, looking up at Tony instead of coming from above, ready to deliver the final blow. "Surely you don't think that the Accords won't come up again after the collective relief of finding Earth whole wears off. Unlike thankfulness, fear is long-lasting, Captain. They're just biding their time until public opinion shifts its attention to the next shiny thing. And when that happens, all the warm feelings and We're-ever-so-grateful-for-your-cooperation's won't mean jack shit. And then, what will happen when we are in a bind again? _You_ tell me."

Rogers passes his hand through his hair and sighs so deeply it almost makes Tony's heart ache. Almost, because Rogers has lost that kind of privilege. "You still want me to sign."

"It's such a small thing," Tony says with a mocking little smile, clearing his throat so that it doesn't sound like he's pleading with him. Never again. "You yourself acted under provisions made in the treaty, which you would know if you had bothered to read it. I know, I know, it looks like the world's dullest paperweight, but there have been amendments ever since. It's got, what, a few pages less than before? It totally makes for breakfast reading material. Read it, for crying out loud."

Rogers looks straight into his eyes, and before he even opens his mouth, Tony just knows he's going to say something dreadfully short-sighted and stupid. "And how is reading it going to change anything?"

And there you go. It's almost as if Rogers enjoys this, pushing all of his buttons and driving him up a wall. The man has perfected pigheadedness into an art form and there doesn't seem to be anything Tony can say or do to make him change his mind. Still, he plays his cards anyway because apparently Tony is a kind benefactor and patron of lost causes. "So you're entirely comfortable strutting around like a morally ambiguous son of a gun for the whole world to see?"

It stings Rogers so much that it makes him flinch. Tony knows questioning his morality stings him good, and that's nothing short of wonderful because this terribly stubborn man is about to make him cry with his obstinacy, and Tony won't shed a single tear more. Not after he sobbed all that he did in that abandoned base in Siberia, anyway, ugly mute cries that made him think Captain fucking America had crushed his windpipe after all.

"It's not morally ambiguous if I know what's right, Tony."

"Yeah, you keep telling yourself that," Tony says, smirking like he has been waiting all this time to throw this little nugget back at Rogers' face, which he has.

"In _this,_ " Rogers says, and the emphasis isn't lost on Tony, "I know what's right."

"You can't just stand there in the middle of the road like a dumb rock o' righteousness, for fuck's sake! You remain as an outlaw, you get hunted down. And if you cared about what's right, you wouldn't be keen on diverting resources away from real world problems while they go and try to catch you."

"It wouldn't be me the one who doesn't have their priorities straight, then."

It's really a split of a second, but for a moment there both of them remain in silence staring at each other, and it's a throwback to that moment in Siberia when a truce seemed more likely than shit hitting the fan. Because in this Rogers is right. Who in their right mind would chase Captain America as if he were a common thief?

"Listen here," Tony says, jumping out of the bed and stumbling because his head hurts like it's splitting in two, and Rogers catches him in time, which is completely unnecessary because he's _good_ and he _needs_ to pace around the lab right now. He can almost pretend they're sparring ideologically for funsies, that they're walking together towards a common goal. He wants to push past his anger and just talk like before until something good comes out it, and he wants it badly enough to keep on trying.

"You say reading it isn't going to change a thing, Cap- _tain,_ " Tony says, cutting the familiarity out of his voice and quickly adding the rest of it because they aren't in good terms and Tony can only pretend so much. "And I say signing it won't change a thing either. Let's forget for a moment that the document has been improved. If you don't sign and refuse to retire, you break the law. If you sign and refuse to hold yourself accountable to what's written in there, which isn't as bad as you think it is, you break the law. If you're planning on breaking the law anyway, doesn't it make more sense to go with the option that buys us time and takes it easy on the team?"

"It's a band-aid solution, Tony. For all I know, the punishment for breaking the law after a signature can be effectively worse, and it's not me I'm worrying about. I was inside the Raft, I saw with my own eyes—"

"And it might never come to happen, you breaking the law post-signature like you got a taste of a life rife with crime and decided you liked it. It might never come to happen if we play it right, if we play the system. The Raft was a gross example of authority abuse, but it was never specified in the Accords. It would never happen now."

Rogers looks pained, and Tony knows that it's because he's going to open his big mouth again and it's not going to be in agreement. "You can't know that."

"You're a selfish bastard," Tony says, and it sounds like he's falling apart. It's not pretty. "How can you prefer being in the right over doing what's right? We can't afford to be unprepared for the next big thing. We absolutely can't afford to be divided over petty little things. I can't believe you prefer to be the fugitive leader of a cell over unit cohesion. Don't they teach you those things in the Army?"

There's a smile playing on the corner of Rogers' lips, but it might as well be a figment of his imagination because it never comes to be. "I was an atypical case within the Army."

By bringing it up, Rogers is opening himself to attack, and Tony hopes he's ready to hear about how he was small as a worm, how the powers that be that he's so against now were the ones who granted him a chance and made him the man he is today, and how almost nothing is truly his own, but at the end of the day Tony's only a man in a can, so he ends up saying in a nonchalant manner, "Right, you never fit anywhere."

Rogers' eyes lit up slightly and it makes Tony feel nauseous. "You actually read the—"

"Don't even go _there,_ " Tony says between clenched teeth, and he remembers why he's angry all over again. "You're choosing your way over having the power to effect change, and I can't believe you're being this narrow-minded. Even for an old geezer, you should be _better_ than that."

"Tony, HYDRA infiltrated and brought down SHIELD, and you're telling me I should have blind trust in the Accords' good intentions?"

 _How about having some measure of trust in your teammates? How about trusting that I have read the fine print and between the lines to make sure the Accords are tight, as much as they can be at the moment? How about believing that I have done everything in my power to make sure everybody is safe going forward?_ Tony has a wealth of arguments to debunk Rogers' claims, really, he has been honing them to perfection in his scarce free time, but he's starting to realize that his efforts are meaningless. Keeping people safe from their own stupidity is simply a hard, thankless task, so in the end he chooses to be petty. Nobody said he was perfect.

"How about you, Captain?" Tony says, and he relishes what he's about to say so damn much that it brings an exaggerated smile to his face, each muscle pulled taut until it hurts. "You left me with the parting gift of having to watch my back at all times because I have no way to know who's going to deceive me next. Yet you don't see me burning bridges like a spoiled brat."

Watching the look on Rogers' face is the proverbial act of drinking poison and waiting for the other guy to drop dead, because it doesn't make Tony feel any better. In fact, it makes him feel like shit, but he stands by his anger and lets any attempt at an apology get stuck in his throat where it chokes him.

"Tony, I'm sorry," Rogers breathes, and he sounds so small that Tony almost doesn't recognize him.

"Here's something else for you to consider," Tony says, raising his eyebrows. He tries to keep his voice from cracking, he thinks of surgical precision and pictures his hand remaining steady as he draws an imaginary arc of light, and it almost works. "I think you didn't even remember I was involved. At most, you shrugged me off as collateral damage from the start, and well, it wasn't like you could bring your pal Howard back to life, so you just washed your hands of all of it. Perhaps you could exploit that angle next time you find yourself in this situation, don't you think? I don't know, maybe that's easier to forgive for the next injured party, to know they were never a factor in the equation because you didn't give a single fuck about them," Tony says with a shrug because none of this matters either. He picks himself up, turns his back on Rogers, and keeps walking until he's out of there.

Small blessings do exist, after all, because he doesn't run into anyone on the way to his room, and with the way he's feeling, he doubts he could stand to face Rhodey, let alone anyone else. "Steady," he speaks under his breath until he's sure that FRIDAY has locked his door for him. 

The first thing he does is to jump into the shower, letting the water hit his body full force against his side. He also has another trick, hitting the tile with the heel of his hand so that the pain travels through his nerves and masks how his arm goes numb at times like he's running out of time. 

_Anxiety,_ he's been told once and again, but what is he supposed to do about it? Tony can't afford to take five and let everybody kick the bucket while he twiddles his thumbs. Even in his visions of an apocalyptic future, he's the last man standing, cheated out of the reward of eternal rest. Tony Stark can't catch a break, not even on doomsday, and while it shouldn't be funny, he can't help chuckling. Tony can't afford to buckle under pressure, and that's the truth.

If a tree falls and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? And if he cracks in the privacy of his own room, does it matter? It's a secret. No one needs to know. Can't he allow himself such a small thing? Can't he let himself mourn someone he thought he knew? It's just this one time. 

"The clock is ticking, Cap," Tony whispers as if he were confiding in a dear friend long gone, and the tiny needles taking hold of his arm travel upwards and make his chest prickle. "I'm here trying to fend off everything on my own, but I'm only one man against the world, you know?" Tony says, and his voice oozes warmth right before it breaks into a sob.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He doesn't want to make things harder for Tony, he truly doesn't, but he seems to be tightly woven into the narrative of Tony's tragedies nonetheless, from Howard's neglect during his childhood to the loss of his parents just before Christmas. It doesn't seem like not complicating Tony's life is even an option for him._

The thing about Natasha is that it can take some time getting used to the way she can startle anyone just by shifting her body language. At first, she'll nod in your general direction by way of greeting, her body casually draped on a chair and half of her face hidden behind a newspaper as though she were perusing the latest opinion pieces with moderate interest, but turn away for a second and suddenly she'll be balancing her weight on the seat at a precarious angle, her full attention zoomed in on her pray. Even the newspaper seems to have been disposed of in the little time it took Steve to take a glass from the cupboard, because it's nowhere to be seen.

"And?" Natasha asks point-blank. "How did it go?"

Steve doesn't mean to make it about himself when Tony is the one affected, but he's never excelled in keeping a poker face, he supposes, because the next thing that Natasha says upon inspecting him from up close is, "Ouch. _That_ good, huh?"

"You have no idea," Steve whispers, closing his hand and running his thumb over his knuckles as though he could preserve in some way the warmth long gone, the calm of waiting for daybreak as he guarded someone else's sleep. He remembers the war and the lull that the night brought, and the smell of smoke after the campfire was put out, and the men exchanging jokes until they became too tired to go on, and afterwards, the silence, the certainty of finding yourself alone with your thoughts and fears until sleep came.

He remembers watching Peggy slipping in and out of dreams, and how he hoped she would still remember him when she woke up again, and how he wonders, even now, whether one of the last things she saw was the dance they never got to share. But staying awake throughout the night for the sake of watching over someone as they slept and making sure they were safe was a first for him. And it's strange to think he never felt lonely as he did so, not even once.

Natasha hums as though she were giving the matter at hand her full consideration. She also pours him some water, because he's still holding an empty glass and thinking of broken pieces and memories that ache like old, forlorn things even though they are fairly new.

"Did you tell him why you did it?" Natasha asks as though an explanation was the only thing required to make amends. But then her eyes lock on his, one of her eyebrows raised. "Why did you keep quiet, again? Why didn't you tell him?"

Coming from someone who thinks the truth is relative and keeps secrets as a trade, it almost sounds tongue in cheek, but hers is not an accusation, just curiosity. And so Steve forces himself to answer in the hopes that it keeps him honest, because while many have challenged Captain America for standing up for his beliefs, a dearth of people have done the same with Steve Rogers.

"I thought I was sparing him. I truly thought I was sparing Tony the pain of reliving their death, and the more I convinced myself of that, the burden felt lighter, easier to carry. I _knew_ what was best," Steve says, laughing not to scream, and his skull isn't thick enough not to see how that works. How talking himself into being justified and letting new reasons pile on top of all the others becomes a feedback loop that keeps spouting _You're right_ at all times. And God, the Accords. He thinks of the Accords and wonders if that's yet another thing where he's being far too stubborn for his own good and everybody else's, and there's a lump in his throat because if he was mistaken, even in some small measure, then all of it could have been avoided. All of it. He had even considered the prospect of signing before he heard about Wanda because it wasn't _impossible._ God, Tony.

"But you didn't."

"No, the truth was—"

"Was it because of Bucky?" Natasha doesn't pull any punches, and he's grateful for that.

"I—" Steve starts, swallowing hard before answering. "I didn't know how to tell him that my friend, the one I failed to save from falling to his death, from years of mindless torture, ended up murdering his parents. Maybe there was nothing I could have done, but I still let him fall. And then I wasn't there to stop him. He killed Howard and his wife, for God's sake. My failure to save Bucky left Tony an orphan. How could Tony stand to look at me again after knowing that? Well, I guess that now I know _exactly_ how he would have looked at me." He's breathless by the time he's done speaking.

"Steve."

"In one way or another, not being able to catch Bucky in time will haunt me for the rest of my life, Nat."

She places her palm against his back, and all he can think about is the amount of people Natasha must have been forced to deceive not to blow her cover, not to lose her life. People she got attached to, people she would have liked to be truthful with if only things had been different. It really is such a tough way to live. But unlike her, he has no excuses. He was only sparing himself.

"Chin up," she says warmly, and the feeling lasts all of five seconds before someone barges in and slams the counter behind them. Tony, right? It has to be Tony, and suddenly Steve feels a mixture of relief, guilt, and something that borders on _happiness,_ because in one way or the other it's easier to have Tony angry at him than not having him at all.

"Do I have to run into you everywhere? One hundred acres, you would think it would be _enough._ "

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve notices how Natasha slips away like a shadow, leaving them alone. And there's something else that comes to his attention now, after seeing the glass doors closing after Natasha. "You didn't change my passcode."

"What?"

"The code I used to enter your lab. You didn't change it," Steve says, and he's trying really hard not to smile even a little, because it comes across as tone-deaf and Tony looks angry and confused as it is.

"I—" Tony stutters, and Steve is still doing his very best not to smile. It's such a gotcha moment for the likes of Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, and IT security expert, and it truly is a small detail in the grand scheme of things, but Steve is clinging to it with all his might. "Maybe it escaped my notice. The whole world doesn't revolve around you. Maybe I had more important things to do, such as putting out all the fires you set. Maybe—"

 _Maybe go fuck yourself,_ Steve supplies in his mind, which seems to be the correct sentiment even if Tony doesn't say it out loud.

"FRIDAY, we need to _talk._ "

" _Boss?_ "

" _Later,_ " Tony says crossly, and then to Steve, "Given that you're already here, I have something for you. US-based, low-profile. Being you, you'd be back home in time for a midday snack." Steve gives a tiny nod and mouths the word _home_ in the smallest voice, but Tony catches it anyway and looks like he wants someone to shoot him now. "Don't _push_ me, Rogers. Anyway, you would team up with someone who actually signed a binding agreement like a responsible adult, and there's no room for discussion on that. Vision's babysitting services are currently available at no charge, and he would be calling the shots on paper. Police forces would be standing by in case something goes out of hand. Take it or leave it."

"It's a PR move," Steve says, and it's not the surprise it would have been once to find that Tony is still trying to find a way around, even if Steve's decisions have left him with almost no space for any kind of maneuver.

Tony bristles, hearing a recrimination when there's none. Misunderstandings are common currency between them these days. "Never said it wasn't," he says, and then, after a pause, "It brings you back to your days as the poster boy for war bonds' sales, doesn't it? If you don't want—"

"Fine," Steve says, and his reply seems to catch Tony unawares.

"I'm sorry, what? What did you just say?"

"Fine, I'll do it."

It's brief, but for a moment Steve can swear a sliver of tension leaves Tony's body. He sets his phone on the counter, and without looking at Steve, he says, "FRIDAY, tell Captain Rogers the ins and outs."

" _Yes, boss._ "

"You're not drinking this, are you," Tony announces rather than asks, making off with Steve's water and taking two pills from a small bottle.

Steve frowns. "The pills you're taking are—"

" _Pain-relie—_ " FRIDAY says helpfully.

"None of your damn business," Tony says, cutting both of them off. "FRIDAY, we _really_ need to talk."

" _But later. Right, boss?_ "

"Oh, don't play innocent on me."

"Thank you, FRIDAY," Steve says.

" _Captain Rogers,_ " FRIDAY says in acknowledgement before she displays a series of images in front of him, detailing the location and the criminal profiles of those involved. Small fry, from what Steve gathers. In fact, the mission is simple enough that sending both Vision and himself seems highly unnecessary, but he knows why Tony is doing this. After what happened last time with Bucky, he wants to have Steve cooperate publicly with law enforcement under the supervision of a signatory to the Accords. 

A goodwill gesture from Captain America.

" _Fairly straightforward,_ " FRIDAY describes the access and escape routes, and it might really be the case that the mission seems like a walk in the park, because Steve's attention keeps shifting to where Tony stands framed by the blue, flickering edges of the hologram, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose as he waits for the painkillers to kick in.

Steve wishes he could do something other than standing on the sidelines as he watches Tony come apart at the seams, but what can he possibly do? He doesn't want to make things harder for Tony, he truly doesn't, but he seems to be tightly woven into the narrative of Tony's tragedies nonetheless, from Howard's neglect during his childhood to the loss of his parents just before Christmas. It doesn't seem like not complicating Tony's life is even an option for him.

"Easy, right?" Tony says listlessly, retrieving his phone after the report is over. He's still avoiding Steve's eyes.

"Is anyone keeping tabs on you?" Steve asks out of worry, but it comes out all wrong because Tony looks insulted.

"Excuse me? I wasn't the one who went rogue—"

"I didn't mean it like that," Steve says tiredly, holding up his hands in an attempt to placate him. Of course that Tony doesn't need the same degree of oversight that he does. Steve isn't delusional. He knows how a considerable sector of the public perceives his past and current actions.

"What did you mean, then?"

"I just want to make sure you're being looked after," Steve speaks softly in hopes that makes Tony understand he means no harm, but Tony only gives him a baffled look. Stripped out of his anger, he simply looks lost, eyes reddish and puffy as though he had been crying, and the mere thought makes Steve's stomach clench up. "Tony, you don't look—"

"I'm perfectly fine," Tony says without missing a beat, and Steve has to clench his teeth not to let out a sigh. _No, you're not. Jesus, Tony, knock it off._

"Tony," Steve pleads.

"Plus, FRIDAY is very well informed about everything as you have seen. I don't need more than that!" Tony shouts at Steve right before the doors close behind him, effectively shutting Steve out.

 

 

For being small fry, the gang's supply of black market weapons isn't insignificant, but Steve makes do. Vision's eyes are on him at all times, and not just to know when to step in and shield Steve's unprotected flank from the bullets. Steve feels scrutinized in a way, but his gut tells him it's not really about the Accords nor a result of the particulars of the mission Tony must have entrusted him with.

"In a scale of 1 to taking on an elevator full of HYDRA operatives posing as SHIELD agents, how did it go?" Natasha asks over the comms. Steve rolls his eyes just a little. Bragging had been the furthest thing from his mind when he told that story.

"I would say we did fine," Steve says.

"I believe the outcome to be positive," Vision agrees. "The offenders have been apprehended and we achieved the mission's objectives without loss of life."

"Tony will be happy," Natasha says, and something about it cuts Steve deep. He doesn't even know when was the last time he saw Tony smile.

" _Yes, he will be pleased,_ " FRIDAY says out of nowhere, and somehow that ends up being enough to clear the air and make them chuckle.

The rest of the flight is spent in silence until Steve blurts, "Has Tony been doing fine?" He knows the answer to that question, but he wants to know exactly how not fine Tony has been, which Vision seems to understand. He's apparently considering the different interpretations of the word before elaborating on an answer.

"The output of Mr. Stark's work has been constant, especially in terms of improving Colonel Rhodes' mobility aids," Vision says, resting his fingers against his chin in what it seems like a learned gesture. "In my own estimation, however, I would say that he believes to be fine, but he's not."

Steve nods at that, looking through the chopper's window at the houses and buildings passing by below them. It's a sunny day outside, and he can't help pressing his fingers against the glass, thinking of warmth and quiet.

"How are you and Wanda doing?" Steve asks next, because the amount of things he feels guilty about don't end with Tony.

At this, Vision simply smiles.

 

 

Back at the compound, the first thing he does is to look for Tony. Both Natasha and FRIDAY must have let him know how the mission went, but that's not really the reason why Steve wants to see him. He does wonder whether he should just give Tony some space, but on the other hand, he can't really expect Tony to go to him when Steve is the one who should be putting in the hard work.

Eventually, he finds Tony donning his full armor save for his helmet as he supervises a training session between Sam and Rhodes, and for a moment all Steve can do is to stare at the sky and follow War Machine's flight path in awe.

"Can he—"

"He can't walk without the suit, which still needs improvements," Tony says without tearing his eyes away from Rhodes. Only then does it hit Steve that Tony is wearing his own suit because he wants to make sure he can do something in the unlikely event that anything bad comes to happen, even if Sam is also there and Rhodes' movements are nothing short of flawless all the way until landing.

"Came back just in time for that snack, did you?"

"As a matter of fact, I did," Steve says with a smile, still looking at Sam and Rhodes talking on the arena after they waved at Tony and him from afar. He had heard everything from Sam, and knowing how guilty he felt about what happened to Rhodes, Steve couldn't help feeling happy for him. "I'm glad they're working things out. I wish—" Steve starts, and once again, it's the wrong thing to say. The implication of his words isn't lost on Tony, because his jaw locks, lips pursed in a tight line.

There's no way he can possibly ask Tony for a training session of their own, no matter how hard he misses to fight alongside him instead of against him. Not after what went down between them, anyway, because Tony seems convinced that Steve was in for the kill when the only thing he wanted was to stop Tony from doing something he would regret. It would be callous to suggest Tony should go through that all over again because Steve misses sparring with him. It would be downright cruel to force Tony to hear the clang of vibranium against the armor's alloy just because Steve feels nostalgic, making him relive the moment when somebody Tony considered a friend laid into him as though he were after his blood.

Steve knows all of that and he still takes a small step forward, because at this point missing him is a craving that engulfs Steve whole. "Tony," Steve says, and because he can't say anything else, he sighs. It comes out in a shudder.

But even if Steve doesn't speak, Tony knows how to read between the lines. How could he not, with that brilliant mind of his? He knows. He can tell what Steve is asking without him even saying it, and his face twists in pain that looks fresh.

"Tony, I didn't—" he starts, but Tony only turns away, lets his helmet shield him, and walks out on Steve.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The only thing he knows is that he would have died to be the man Pepper deserved. But in the end he was only the kind of self-centered asshole who didn't want to stop, not even for her._

He doesn't rush through the streets as he always does, going so far as stopping a few extra seconds on each red light as if someone had taken the fun out of speeding up and feeling the wind on his face. Each second adds up, and Tony is stalling as if the outcome could be any different by virtue of letting time pass, just dragging his feet like a sulky little kid who doesn't want to go back to school after summer break. Of course, he knows why. There's simply something final about it all.

Deep down, though, he knows it's time. And he might as well rip the band-aid now that so many things are aching at the same time, so many things are malfunctioning. There's no need to dwell on every little breakdown, that way. It might as well be now that there's no new low to reach. After all, he can regroup later, because once you reach the very bottom, the only way to go is up, right?

But at the moment he needs a quick fix while he takes care of patching things up, so he goes for numbness. Waking up to the sound of his mother's favorite carol and knowing there's no one by the piano? Numb. The sound of his arc reactor cracking under the blunt force of a vibranium shield? Numb all around. And when he sees Pepper waiting for him inside the café he picked, looking so beautiful he could fall in love with her all over again? God, so numb. He can't feel a thing.

She stands up when he sees him enter, and for a moment it feels like another day at the office, which he isn't sure he likes. On one hand, it feels as if the slow eroding of boundaries between them had never come to happen, no proof left that she once came into his life with the intention of staying. On the other hand, the idea of starting from the beginning makes him think they could have built something better the second time around, perhaps. They could have started from a clean slate, their own improved, more efficient Mark I. Except that relationships don't work that way, nor do broken hearts. Held up against technology, they still have a lot of catching up to do.

"Tony, I'm so sorry," Pepper says in a soft, warm voice, gently wrapping her arms around him, and he probably must assume going forward that everybody knows what happened by now, if only because it's easier. Then it will actually be a surprise when he runs into someone who doesn't have a clue. _Why, you didn't know? It wasn't an accident. And here I thought my dad was an idiot, because what kind of guy flies handsomely over enemy airspace in the middle of a war and then goes and totals his car years down the road? But no, it turns out he was only an idiot because he brought my mom on that ride._

She holds his nape just barely, pulling him against her, and she's so warm that he leans into her touch for a moment. It really is only a moment, because he can't let her pick up after him ever again. It would be selfish of him, and by God, he's a selfish man, but he can't do that to her. Besides, he's certain that she wouldn't let him either. But for an instant they hold each other, everything else forgotten, and then it's over.

They sit in silence after that. Pepper orders coffee for him, old habits resurfacing, and although he wants to protest, it's a small token of kindness and he's so tired. "I called you as soon as I heard, but you wouldn't answer any of my calls," she says, and although there's a hint of reproach in her voice, it's subdued.

"Well, that's not a failure on my part. It's what people recommend, going no contact," Tony says, fiddling around with a sugar packet for lack of anything else to tinker with. He really wants to stress that this time it wasn't his fault, even if everything else is. Sure, technically it was nobody's fault, but he was the one who didn't want to quit being who he was, Iron Man in addition to Tony Stark, who was already a handful before the suits came around, so that's all on him. And it was the right call for her, going away even though he asked her not to. She came so close to dying last time. He almost lost her for good. He thought they were doing fine after that, but how much can you ask from someone before they crack? Surely not as much as he asked from her, so it's a good thing that she got to escape after seeing him for who he was. Because Vision was right, and at the time Tony had no way to know he was a monster even if he was one. He has confirmed his suspicions ever since, though.

"I know," she says with a little smile, granting him that small victory. Coming from him, it must seem like a sign of maturity, not giving in and calling her once, twice, thrice and again. And he would take credit for that, but he received a little help from FRIDAY on that department, all calls blocked until the temptation subsided, and Pepper must know this too, knowing him as well as she does.

From there, she keeps the conversation going. She always kept everything running smoothly, and he would like to say that he's only noticing it now because it would fit your standard break-up story, the old saying of not knowing what you have until you lose it. But he's always been aware of her qualities, even back when it seemed like he was taking them for granted. Of course he knew.

However, knowing wasn't enough. Love wasn't enough either. It worked for his mom and dad, but there are formulas that are hard to replicate, especially if the elements are different. Some things just don't hold together well enough and some people fare better apart from one another. Tony only has to look at her to know that she's living proof of that. All he has to do is to see how breathtaking she looks with none of the worry nor the stress marring her features. Leaving behind a world of pain has never suited her better. She's flourishing without him, _just look at her._

"That will be all, Miss Potts," Tony says when the time comes, and he doesn't know whether that fragment of their past pains her. He's not looking at her but away from where they stand, reacquainting himself with the idea of a future without her. But it truly must be for the best, because Pepper was able to see that same future, not as he wanted it to be but as it would have been, and she knew better than to stay.

"Take care, Tony. Promise me that you'll take care of yourself," she says kindly, pulling him into an embrace.

"Sure." 

He leans into her warmth for one last time, stopping just before it gets uncomfortable for her, and when she pulls away he knows she's letting go of him for good. He lets her do that. He doesn't chase after her. He's had to let go so many times before that it's second nature by now.

Outside, the engine of her car purrs, and before he can reach out to see whether the cup she left behind is still warm, she's out of his life. She's gone and he feels nothing. The only thing he knows is that he would have died to be the man Pepper deserved. But in the end he was only the kind of self-centered asshole who didn't want to stop, not even for her.

 

 

"Pepper," Rhodey raises the topic without any kind of prelude, not even out of courtesy, obviously abusing the power that a friendship of so many years has granted him. Jerk. He's lucky Tony loves him, because imagine if he didn't.

"She's living her best life, sends her regards," Tony says without looking up from the model displayed in front of him. "We could make it faster, you know? I'll have FRIDAY run a demo first."

Rhodey sighs like a drama queen. "You don't want to talk about it."

"No, I do, which is why I've been asking you for quality feedback and you're wasting our time talking about things that have nothing to do with your suit. Focus, sourpatch. How did it feel?"

"Is there anyone you talk with about these things? FRIDAY, at least?"

" _That would be a no, Colonel Rhodes,_ " FRIDAY says, and by this point Tony has given up trying to rein in her running commentary on his life. Such are the perils of artificial intelligence.

"See? You keep making adjustments to avoid dealing with your problems, Tony. When does it stop?"

"It stops when I say so!" Tony snaps. He takes a deep breath then, fingers grabbing handfuls of hair before he can gather the courage to look at Rhodey in the eyes. "Sorry. Look, I'm just trying to do something good for you, buddy. How about your loungewear there? The priority was to make it lighter, am I right?"

"Well, I _could_ picture that, I guess," Rhodey says, tapping his fingers against his legs. "But right now it's top-notch, Tony, and I'm grateful. I really am. But you know what would be really good right now? For you to take a break and have lunch with me. Have you been eating properly?"

Tony snorts. "Yes, _mom_. And besides, eating is overrated. Just ask Vision."

Rhodey puts his hands on his hips, one step forward before saying, " _Stank,_ you don't want me mad."

"Oh yeah?" Tony says in his best impression of someone who means business, even though he's trying really hard not to let a smile creep into his face. "Whatcha gonna do about it, carebear?"

They end up cracking up, and it feels so good, just being able to laugh about something. Anything. "Come," Rhodey says, holding out a hand, their roles reversed so soon already because now Tony is the one who needs propping up. Again.

"Coming," Tony says, letting Rhodey pull him from his seat and taking mental notes on the traction of his mobility device. "FRIDAY, you caught that? Here's what we're going to do to improve the kinetic energy's absorption—"

"You're not going to keep working. FRIDAY, don't listen to your boss."

" _Boss, it seems you have been outranked. I'll have the reports ready for your return,_ " FRIDAY chirps, and Rhodey goes back to laughing, and for a moment Tony remembers Pepper saving his old arc reactor despite instructions to the contrary, and JARVIS putting him out of harm's way, even if he ended up sending him all the way to Tennessee. He's not particularly given to nostalgia, but he would have been so lost without all of them. What would have become of Tony if they had always listened to him? He would be dead.

"I'm afraid you're outnumbered, Tony," Rhodey says jokingly, and Tony can only sigh, admitting defeat. 

"Fine, I am. You guys win."

 

 

Steve catches the sound of his voice before he sees Tony walk by with Rhodes at his side. It's a murmur, barely, and then laughter coming from the floor below him, but Steve doesn't need more than that to know it's him. 

It had started as something small to keep him busy during those first sleepless nights in Wakanda, a reminder of what he would be coming home to when the day came. No hero's welcome, that was for sure, and what really drove the point home was the memory of Tony's voice as Steve turned his back on him, the exact cadence of his words as he said that Steve was undeserving of the shield Howard had made.

So it started like that, out of a need to remember. He had done the same with Peggy after she passed away, not wanting to forget the sound of her voice. He would look for footage of her and play it on the background, committing to mind the velvety quality of her speech until each new detail merged with his memories of her.

With Tony it was even easier, because he seemed to be a permanent fixture on the news, and when he wasn't, he was just a click away. There were scores of search results on all the measures he had taken after Steve and the others left, all the press conferences and interviews, countless appeals, hearings and negotiations, a great deal of damage control. It worked in such a way that by nightfall, his voice was fresh in Steve's mind like recently fallen snow, clear and perfect right to the pitch.

_Don't bullshit me, Rogers, did you know?_

Steve has replayed that scene in his mind time and again ever since, because he isn't allowed to forget that there are consequences to each of his actions. He can never forget that no matter how just is his cause or how noble are his intentions, all of that loses its significance if others get caught in the crossfire. Was his resolve worth the time his friends spent in the Raft? Was it worth all of Tony's pain? 

"Hey," Sam says then, pulling him out of his reveries. He joins Steve by the balustrade, just in time to follow the same path that Steve's eyes do—Tony and Rhodes turning around a corner. "I swear, man, I'm starting to wonder if you've got a single relationship that isn't complicated, and I mean outside of me. Care to explain how that keeps happening?"

Steve chuckles at that, hands thrown up in the air. "I got nothing."

Sam crosses his arms, gives a single nod, and says, "Hm, I see. You don't know how to keep things simple."

"I don't?" Steve repeats, holding onto the railing. Perhaps he truly doesn't know how, because things only turned out to be more and more complex after they found him in the ice, and they were already knotty in '43. It's not that he would have backed out if he had known how things would turn out to be, but sometimes it feels like a fair warning wouldn't have hurt. "And how do you suppose I should go around doing that?"

Sam takes a deep breath, and Steve wonders if he should take out his notebook and put whatever Sam is going to say on the list too. "Listen, I made a bad call. I was wrong about him. I thought, here's this pompous rich boy who thinks he's always right. How on Earth is he going to believe us? But I think back to the moment we decided to go on our own, and I wonder how differently things would have played out if we had just let the guy know first."

"You and I, Sam," Steve says in a low voice. If the threat of an elite death squad wreaking havoc hadn't hung over their heads, Steve could have simply remained as a voice of dissent without risking anyone's safety, without letting them run into a fight where no one was going to come out the winner. Perhaps he and Tony could have even reached some sort of middle ground given enough time. God knows Tony was always trying to think of a way out.

"For all I know, Rhodes could have come out of this with his legs intact, and I wouldn't have had to—" Sam doesn't finish the sentence, but Steve knows what he's leaving out. He wouldn't have had to watch Rhodes fall as he did with Riley. "It's just, Tony did do what he said he'd do. He gave me his word and kept it. He went there to help you as a friend before it all went to hell, didn't he? Man, the thing with his parents was all kinds of messed up. If only we had told him what we knew from the start. Don't you think about that?"

"If only I had told him what I knew about Howard's death," Steve whispers, and he can't believe that sparing Tony sounded like a good idea at the time.

"Yeah. If only, right?" Sam smiles and takes a deep breath again, and Steve knows the kind of weight that now rests on Sam's shoulders.

If only.

"I'm not saying I have faith in the Accords. Look at the good they did to us last time. And I'm not that keen on taking orders anymore, not really. But maybe you can be the bridge we need right now, you know? Maybe you can reconcile an opinion such as his and mine. I still don't know him as much as you do, but I do believe he was trying, and perhaps we should learn from our past mistakes and talk it out this time. I'll do what you decide."

Sam pats his back before he leaves, and then Steve is left alone with his own burden to carry. Does that sound too dramatic? Peggy would have said it does, but he isn't sure that the situation doesn't deserve it. You either die a hero or live long enough to muck things up, which is exactly what he had done.

If Steve had really known what Tony was made of, he would have told him about the other Winter Soldiers when it could have made a difference. The confrontation in the airport would have never happened, nor everything that followed afterwards. So what if the Accords hadn't let him help? Tony would have found a way, just as he had when he left everything to lend him a hand. Even Zemo was counting on it. A complete stranger knew Tony better than him. Siberia had been the perfect example of who Tony really was. Not what he did out of grief, but his desire to help. That was the reason why Steve had meant to stop him before Vision was created, because as Wanda had said then, he would have done anything to make things right.

No, Steve didn't know Tony at all. But he's going to fix that.

 

 

Back at the lab, he finishes the last details on Rhodey's suit, or almost, anyway, because at some point his hands stop following his lead and cramp up, going on strike. He closes them into a fist and opens them again, flexing his fingers and vaguely wondering if he has to add carpal tunnel syndrome to his list of glitches. Blurry sight, too, since he has slept so poorly lately. Fuck, he can't take a break.

Briefly, he thinks of Maya, and someone has to stop him before he can begin to ponder the pros and contras of virus inoculation, because it's usually far too late by that time and even he knows it's a stupid idea to consider Extremis at all. Because it is stupid, right? Then why it doesn't sound so bad? 

"Focus," Tony tells himself. He's got enough on his plate as it is. He can't open another can of worms when keeping the Avengers together and away from jail is a balancing act that requires his full concentration. _Focus._ Feeling desperate, he thinks of Pepper. He forces himself to think of her, glowing red and writhing, and he thinks of Rhodey, who would just go ahead and kill Tony for doing stupid things to himself on a constant basis.

But he just has a knack for completely wrecking himself, so something's gotta give. It's either exposing himself to a virus he doesn't know he would survive or messing around with his memories, even if it makes his head feel like it's being crushed by a vise.

In the end, hacking his brain wins hands down. He's trying to be responsible, after all.

"FRIDAY, do me a solid and initialize the BARF protocol for me."

" _Boss, the frequency between each log is—_ "

"Too soon, right? But it's either that or tampering with my DNA, and we don't need that right now, do we? I know what I'm doing, so be a doll and run with it."

" _Yes, boss._ "

He doesn't have to wait long until everything is ready. Before he knows it, he's opening his eyes to one slice of his childhood he had thought lost. The first thing he notices is that his dad isn't here. Tony has edited him out, and if this keeps up he's going to barely remember the man later. He simply doesn't have that many fond memories of his father not being a jerk to him, not when all of Howard Stark's theatrical appearances are the unequivocal point where all of Tony's earliest experiences went sour. 

If his dad were here now, he would have ruined the picnic already as he did in reality, and Tony wants to be somewhere happy for a change. His mom is singing while she arranges freshly cut strawberries into hearts for her little boy, and he doesn't have the time to think of what he did wrong this time. Enough of that. His mom is singing of a land she heard once in a lullaby, and if pops were here there would be no rainbow skies, only a tin man without a heart. 

He wants to stay here forever. It's a happy place where the sun touches his skin, and the wind ruffles his hair and the grass below his feet, and his mom sings so sweetly, and nothing hurts. It figures, since his dad isn't here to rain on their parade.

And Tony isn't here either, not for real.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _If someone were to ask Steve what he wants, he would answer that his only wish is for the Avengers to be a team again in all the sense of the word, and he has no doubt that Tony would agree. They were trying so desperately to keep the team together even as they fought each other, undermining each other's efforts because they were a pair of idiots, apparently._

Vaguely, Steve is aware that what he's attempting to do is no different than what every visitor to his exhibit in the Smithsonian did, learning about a subject from second-hand sources. Things get lost in translation, and believing the information he was given without questioning already failed him once. But lacking access to the full experience, there's nothing else he can think of.

The playlist that FRIDAY suggested to him, plainly labeled as _Boss at Work,_ is playing in the background—a series of loud electric noises that Steve found distracting in the beginning, but that now have blended with the footage of the Stark Expo's inauguration. It's the second time Steve listens to Tony's speech, and to be completely honest, taken at face value the whole spiel still suits to a T the textbook narcissism that his file mentioned back in the day. It even makes Steve's pulse quicken despite the fact that he couldn't be further away from anger, and his only guess is that Tony is just that good at posturing.

Tony reminds him of Howard, in fact, of his public persona as an entertainer. Even his appearance in the infamous Senate hearing seems thought up to pull the audience's attention until they're at the edge of their seats, rallying behind the man who had the guts to call a bunch of senators assclowns.

Somewhere, in the kind of alternate reality described in the science fiction books Steve borrowed from the library downtown, this version of Tony is telling Ross to stuff it, that his bond is with the people instead of with those calling the shots. He's telling Ross that he can't have the Avengers, not a single one of them. 

But Steve knows damn well that neither Tony nor Natasha can afford to turn their backs on anyone as they did in the past. They simply can't ignore 117 signatures and counting, and the weight of that yoke is clear on Tony's features. The spark that made Tony carry himself with a self-confidence that bordered on hubris is nowhere to be found, and although Steve misses the arrogant know-it-all who could make his blood boil at the drop of a hat, he has to live with the knowledge that he, too, helped to destroy him.

There's a knock then, and before Steve has time to think of the current state of his room, he opens the door to Natasha. "You wanted to talk," she says, her expression neutral until the sound of an electric guitar solo makes her raise an eyebrow. "That's not the kind of tune you usually listen to, is it?"

"FRIDAY's idea of modern music," Steve says with a shrug before he turns down the volume even further, except that he still has printed news clippings lying around that go all the way back to Tony's childhood, and there's a recording of one of Tony's talks on a subject Steve knows nothing about currently playing.

"Uh-huh," Natasha says, and Steve is such a poor liar that he has no other option but to come clean.

"I should have trusted him," Steve blurts, hopelessness bubbling up inside him, and with the way things are lately, he can just tell that he's going to start talking and not stop. "After New York and Sokovia, I thought I did. I saw how he put his life on the line to save others, but apparently that wasn't enough for the likes of me. Maybe there was a part of me that never let go of the idea that he only fought for himself. Maybe all I could think of was how wrong he was about Ultron instead of remembering how right he was about Vision. Because the thing is that when push came to shove, I didn't trust him enough to let him help."

"When push comes to shove, you two tend to clash. It's your thing, and it makes for a good show when it doesn't go beyond banter," Natasha says, a slightly amused tone to her voice. "And yet you also have it in you to bring the best out of each other. We wouldn't have lasted as a team if that wasn't true."

"I should have known better, Nat. What kind of team leader was I supposed to be if I didn't know that about him? All I can think about is that I must have missed something along the way. The smallest detail, perhaps, something that reminded me on the bad days that there are things about Tony that are only for show, but that ultimately he's someone who would risk anything to help any of us. I didn't see that in time, and this is the only way I know how to bridge the gap," Steve says, gesturing around him to encompass all the papers spread around his room as though it had turned into a Tony Stark shrine overnight. "I mean, I've been catching up on the things I missed all these years through research alone, each and every one of those things I keep filling small notebooks with. Surely it isn't so outlandish to do the same with Tony? I just don't have another way to make it up for not being there," Steve says, painfully aware of how pathetic that sounds.

Natasha, God bless her, puts a hand on his shoulder before he can keep babbling. "And how can I help you with your crash course on all things Stark?"

Before Steve can answer, the audio coming from his laptop turns from technical jargon that barely resembles English to what he can only describe as moaning. The images, though grainy, are still clear enough for Steve to make out Tony fooling around with two women, one at each side. "Christ," Steve says, thinking of nothing but genius, billionaire, _playboy,_ philanthropist, and although he's quick to slam the laptop closed, it doesn't stop the sounds.

"I got it," Natasha says, taking the computer out of his hands all the while something dark brews inside Steve and leaves him breathless. "The dangers of autoplay. Okay, that one's gone and I'm certain that FRIDAY will take down any copy that's still out there."

 _Well, you were the one who wanted to know everything,_ Steve tells himself, nails sinking into his palm in anger at he doesn't even know what exactly, and when Natasha turns to look at him, he wishes she would just leave him alone. She looks as though she has a question burning the tip of her tongue, and Steve is half-expecting her to ask him whether that was his first racy reel since 1945, but she only says, "That was before Pepper."

Once the thought sinks in, Steve nods, tension leaving his body until the only thing left is a tickle on his belly and then that, too, is gone. The next video on the queue is Tony's holiday greeting to the Mandarin, right up to the _Bill me_ line. "I only learned about it after it was over. And I had trouble believing such a ridiculously smart man could be this reckless and stupid."

"But he managed on his own," Natasha says.

"Oh sure, he did. New Years' Eve came rolling around and he was back in business, hosting a party as if he hadn't had his house torn out from under him a little while ago. I saw a full-page spread on the newspaper. It all seemed so inconsequential to him that I didn't think—I didn't think he cared. I figured it had something to do with his being wealthy, since he could obviously afford to build something bigger and better if he so wished. I thought home didn't have the same meaning for him than it did for the rest of us simple folk," Steve says, passing his fingers through his hair. "You wrote his assessment, Nat. If all of that wasn't true, then what was? Where did I go wrong? What did I miss?"

"In the spirit of full disclosure, he was dying at the time I wrote that, you know?"

"What?" Steve says, a cold grip around his chest. "What do you mean he was dying?"

"The palladium on his arc reactor began to poison him, so after Fury forced his hand, he ended up discovering a new element that fixed the problem. You should have read about that."

"About the new element, yes, but I didn't know it was—" Again, he didn't know. That seemed to be something he kept running into whenever Tony was involved. Steve just didn't know any better.

"It gives a different flavor to his Expo's talk on legacy, doesn't it?" Natasha says, looking at him carefully. "Would that have changed your first impression of him? If you had known that, would you have given him the benefit of the doubt as you did with Bucky?"

Steve chokes, and for a moment it's hard to see or think straight. "What I don't get is why SHIELD would give us information that painted him in a bad light if we were supposed to be a team. I misjudged him, and I came this close to not having a chance to go back on all the things I told him. He flew into a massive wormhole and almost didn't come back, and here I was telling him he wasn't the kind of guy to make the sacrifice play. I read a few lines, watched a few clips, and suddenly I was the expert on Tony Stark as though I had known him my entire life, all because I trusted what was written in there. It's a mistake I keep making, Natasha."

"It's not that all of it wasn't true. We needed someone who kept his cool and didn't fall apart in the middle of a crisis."

"He's _not_ a soldier," Steve retorts, old memories flooding back to him, and it's refreshing to be on the side of that argument, just being on Tony's side for once. "He never received the training for that."

"Do you really believe that?"

" _Come again?_ "

"If you really believe he's more than what was written in his file, why don't you trust him now? I know, Tony can be such a jerk sometimes, but I wish you had seen how he struggled to keep the team together. Do you have any idea what it's like to kiss Ross' ass while the only thing you want is to punch him in the throat? Steve, you don't have a damn clue. They wanted to shoot to kill. And after you left? He's been up at all hours keeping track of things, and I wonder how he hasn't gone crazy yet. He's bought you time, Steve, but at the end of the day you're still going to have to make a decision. So which one is it going to be? I didn't let you go so you could wreck our family."

Steve takes a sharp intake of breath at that. "Fair enough."

"Please, think about it. You know where to find me if you change your mind," Natasha says, leaving him alone.

The next video is styled in full caps and titled _MERCHANT OF DEATH_ and from the looks of it, it's straight-up character assassination. There's no other way to put it. Whoever made this thing has matched the song's lyrics to the images for maximum shock value, so the line _kills the people he once saved_ is played against the backdrop of Lagos, and Steve is livid because Tony wasn't even there, and _nobody wants him, they just turn their heads_ features the news about how Captain America ditched Iron Man and went rogue. It takes a lot of effort on Steve's part not to smash something right there, and he can't help feeling oddly protective of Tony, of the man he is underneath the safeguard of his suit.

Once he's calmed down, he looks up in time to see Tony's conference after he returned from his captivity. He hears Tony say that he never got to say goodbye to Howard, and that's a kick in the gut right until the part where he says, his voice close to faltering but not quite, how he saw young Americans killed by the weapons he created—

_Oh, that's Charles Spencer by the way._

—and how he had become part of a system that was comfortable with zero accountability.

_We need to be put in check. Whatever form that takes, I'm game._

And Steve had heard his words back then, but he hadn't understood. He had argued that you don't give up when someone dies on your watch, because if he had given up after he saw Bucky fall, then the bad guys would have won. He couldn't believe Tony wasn't able to see that, but Steve hadn't seen things from Tony's point of view either.

_Who said we're giving up?_

Because all he had done, from shutting down the weapons manufacturing division of Stark Industries to signing the Accords had been the furthest thing from giving up for him. Misguided as some of his initiatives had been, everything that Tony had done from that point onwards was an attempt to engineer world peace. Sadly, peace isn't something that lends itself to that kind of approach. It's not something that follows scientific ingenuity and mathematical principles, nor something you can apply your smarts to it and solve as though it were a riddle. There are too many variables involved, all of them as volatile as humans themselves are, but damn, Tony had tried. You couldn't fault him for that.

"Nat," Steve says as soon as she picks up the call. "There was a file you mentioned before."

A pause, and then, "Do I send it your way?"

"Yes."

"Sent."

"Just, don't mention it to anyone. I can't make any promises yet."

"You know I'm good at keeping secrets."

"Yes, I do," he says with a smile.

"Steve, it's an annotated version. You'll see what I mean in a sec. I'm not entirely sure I was supposed to keep it, but it's the most comprehensive one, listing all the differences with the old Accords, and well, Tony did use it as a reference in our meetings, since he figured that trying to argue as if you were there was the best way to improve the document. Don't take things personally. He was, um, working on his issues."

"All right," Steve says, not sure what Natasha means until he takes a look at the file. Right above the place where his signature would have been, there's a furiously scribbled note that says _Captain Asshole, self-righteous, star-spangled bastard._

 

 

In the end, he winds up printing the whole thing, because while digital support is Tony's thing, Steve prefers things he can touch. He's going to recycle all of it anyway, but for now he appends post-it notes rebutting several of Tony's points and changing turns of phrase on the ones he does agree with, and it feels good to hold a conversation with Tony even in spite of his absence. If Bucky hadn't been framed by Zemo as the mastermind behind the bombing in Vienna, Steve could have sat down with Tony to talk things through. They would have argued till kingdom come, that's for sure, but some sort of compromise would have had to come out of it, or at least something better than they currently had. 

Eventually, Steve runs out of ink, and taking it as a sign to stop, he walks around the compound until he reaches Wanda's room and knocks on her door without knowing what he's going to say. "I was wondering if you felt like going for an ice cream," Steve says, and Wanda's eyebrows work out into something that isn't quite a frown, but it still spells annoyance.

"I'm not a kid," she says, and perhaps Tony is right about that, but Steve can't help himself.

"I'm partial to butter pecan myself."

And she's clearly still a kid in some measure, because she's rolling her eyes just now. " _Fine._ "

They end up venturing beyond the complex, where the expanse of the forest begins to grow into thicker pillars of green. Wanda has a cone in one hand while the other plays with dandelions and fallen leaves, making them dance in the air.

"I don't think I asked you what you wanted," Steve says while he watches her bend a small piece of the world to her will.

"All the things I did, I did them freely."

"I know that."

She lets her hand fall and then the spell is broken. "I guess I wanted to stop being afraid of the things I was capable of. If what others thought of me was all I was, then I was nothing but a monster. When Pietro and I swore to take our revenge against all the things that Tony Stark represented, I never thought I would become something worst."

"Wanda, you're not a monster."

"Maybe."

"You're not."

Wanda takes a deep breath and turns her back on him, lining small pebbles along her path. "If you ask me what I want, the only thing I can think of is making amends. But if you ask me what I would want for myself— 

"You know, sometimes I think of how free Pietro felt when he sped up, and I wonder if he wasn't making up for each second we spent trapped under rubble, and then kept away from the world in Strucker's lab," Wanda says, turning to see him, and her eyes glow red for the briefest of moments before they turn sad. "What I want for myself is to never get locked up again. If I signed the Accords now, could I get both wishes? Or is it too late?"

"We'll figure something out, Wanda." Although it sounds like an empty promise, it isn't. He always stands by his word.

She hums in acknowledgement, eating her ice cream in silence as they make their way back to the compound. "Do you know what Tony feared the most?" Wanda asks all of a sudden, and for a moment Steve feels exposed. She knows what he saw. She knows what all of them saw.

"No," Steve replies, swallowing hard. He doesn't know, but he can imagine nightmares of shrapnel working its way into Tony's heart.

"All his friends were dead," Wanda says so softly he almost doesn't hear her, "and it was his fault."

 

 

There's barely light outside by the time he returns to his room. Steve turns on the lamp by his desk and sits in front of the pile of paper sheets that the Accords amount to, but he can't find it in himself to continue revising the document. There are many thoughts spiraling on his mind, memories of all the exchanges he's had with Tony, and it's not that everything is different now, but—

_I know you're doing what you believe in._

Although Steve had believed that to be true back when he wrote that letter, now the thought is crystal clear. That's what Tony had been trying to do all along, what he believed in.

If someone were to ask Steve what he wants, he would answer that his only wish is for the Avengers to be a team again in all the sense of the word, and he has no doubt that Tony would agree. They were trying so desperately to keep the team together even as they fought each other, undermining each other's efforts because they were a pair of idiots, apparently.

Steve sighs, letting himself fall on his bed, and no matter how long it's been, it's still too soft. He sits up, leans against the padded headboard while wishing it was made out of steel instead, and thinks. He wants to believe that there's still time to fix this mess they got themselves into. He wants all of it to be nothing but a memory, a reminder that there was a time when their bond as a team was tested but not broken.

And if someone were to ask him what he wants for himself?

His heart starts beating hard, just racing ahead of him, and all he wants is to go where Tony is and—and what? Does he want Tony to consider him a friend again? Is that it? Sam once asked him what made him happy, and he still has no idea what that would entail outside of making the world a better place, but he knows that earning back Tony's trust would be a start. But before he can decide on a course of action to make that happen, he sees a blue light flickering on the panel beside the door.

"FRIDAY?"

" _Captain Rogers, I am to inform you that your passcode to access Mr. Stark's laboratory is no longer operational,_ " FRIDAY says, and Steve should have seen that coming, but there's still a part of him that rebels against the idea in a deeply juvenile fashion that can only be compared to the feeling of getting a beloved toy stolen.

"Why?"

" _A new code is to be issued under your name only in the case of a crisis. Your new passcode is—_ "

"Wait, what? You just said— FRIDAY, define crisis, would you?"

" _In this case, temporary, non-lethal incapacitation._ "

"What?"

" _In other words, he's unwell, and he's being stubborn, and you're one of the few people within the compound he didn't bother telling me I shouldn't call._ "

"God, Tony, what the hell is wrong with you," Steve says before dashing out of his room on his way to the lab.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tony's only human, so if he feels infinitesimally relieved not to be alone, well, it's not about Rogers. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a reflex, a need for human connection during one of his lowest times. Anyone would have done._

Tony would like to say that the part of him that isn't hurting is rethinking his life choices, but being in agony doesn't really leave room for careful consideration. " _Fucking_ remember this," he mumbles while he clutches his head and presses his face against the floor, and although he wants to commit to memory the exact way in which pain is spreading like wildfire around his skull, he knows he's not going to learn anything from the experience. Next time he'll say it wasn't as bad as he remembers it being, only to repeat the same mistake like a stupid idiot. Maybe his decision-making skills are worth shit these days. Maybe he's really frying his brain beyond the point of no return and this is the proof.

"Brain tissue has no pain receptors, _oh God,_ " Tony says in an attempt to focus on something else, but given that neurological facts don't seem to help in this situation, he keeps his mouth shut until his stomach decides against it. BARF strikes again, it almost always does, and from then on everything is fuzzy around the edges, save for Dum-E's persistently stubborn tugging on his t-shirt, preventing him from rolling over and choking on his own bile. And Dum-E may be a dunce, and his last name should probably be Rogers, but damn if Tony isn't somehow glad he rebuilt the little guy from scraps.

" _Help is on the way, boss,_ " FRIDAY announces, and her voice reaches him as if from far away, each word spelled out in slow motion to the point where there's a lag of a few minutes until Tony can process the whole message.

"I told you I didn't—" Tony starts, but the lab's door swishes open before he can say anything else.

" _You didn't mention Captain Rogers among the ones I shouldn't call,_ " FRIDAY says, and it's all Tony's fault, really, because he shouldn't have spoken of the devil. And of course that Tony didn't mention him among the emergency contacts not to be contacted. Rogers wasn't even supposed to have access to the lab unless there was a crisis—

Well, fuck. Maybe _this_ looks like a crisis, even if it isn't. Maybe he should really get some sleep, if only to see if he can come up with a set of guidelines that doesn't involve Rogers barging in through a loophole.

"Tony," Rogers breathes as soon as he's inside, and it must be that Tony's stomach isn't in a position to twist any further at the sight of him, because the only thing he feels is something suspiciously similar to relief. If someone asks later, he'll say Rogers caught him when he was feeling so disgusted what with BARF's side effects that his disgust at anything else, Rogers included, paled in comparison. And Tony's only human, so if he feels infinitesimally relieved not to be alone, well, it's not about Rogers. It doesn't mean anything. It's just a reflex, a need for human connection during one of his lowest times. Anyone would have done.

"Oh God, not _you,_ " Tony says, feigning more irritation than he feels because he won't give Rogers the satisfaction of knowing himself needed.

"Tony, are you okay?" Rogers sounds worried, and despite the bafflement that causes him, Tony still has enough presence of mind to roll his eyes. _I'm obviously not okay, genius,_ Tony thinks, and then his stomach rolls again, and Rogers replaces good ol' Dum-E and holds him from behind. His fingers cup Tony's forehead in much needed warmth, and it's a pity that Rogers isn't still in front of him because that would have been nice, throwing up all over Rogers' shoes.

"Are you ill? Is it something you ate? Were you drinking?"

Despite the pain and the queasiness, Tony discovers that he has endless reserves of anger, because the first thing he says after his stomach settles is, "That's truly something coming from a guy who can't even get drunk. You just can't help looking down at us lesser beings from your high horse, huh?" 

It sounds far less eloquent when he says it, you know, because he's sick as a dog. In fact, all he can hear coming out of his mouth is a string of slurred words, but Rogers still looks mortified, which is pretty good all-around and it breathes life into the sad, tired sack of bones that Tony is right now.

"We need to get you to medical," Rogers says in that domineering tone that he probably believes makes him sound like he's always in the right. It doesn't.

"No, we don't. I can handle this. I've done it before. Everything's under control. I'm _fine,_ " Tony says even though he has started to shake, but other than that, he would say he's succeeding at playing it cool.

" _Before,_ " Rogers says pointedly. "Were you doing the same thing last time I found you?"

And Tony is such a wreck, really, and the pain he feels is almost blinding, but he still finds it in him to smile, if only to stick it up to Rogers. "Maybe."

"What _exactly_ are you doing this time?" Rogers asks angrily, and well, that's new. Tony is the one who should be angry at all times, not him, but the last thing he needs right now is to have Rogers accusing him of fucking things up again.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch, Rogers. It's nothing that affects you or anyone else that isn't me."

"And you're not going to tell me about it," Rogers says, adding a sigh for effect, and Tony isn't quite sure he understands what business is it of him.

"You kinda lost your moral high ground when it comes to secrets, wouldn't you say?" Tony blinks to make his eyes focus, and the first thing he notices is that Rogers looks frustrated. Oh, that's good. What a thing of beauty that is. It feels so good that it makes Tony's soul sing. _Get frustrated some more, Rogers._

"Can you walk?"

"Of course I can," Tony says, but even though Rogers is helping him up, his head hurts so intensely that the world around him grays out and his legs give in. Fuck.

"You can't," Rogers says softly, the little shit.

"Whatever you do, don't even think about picking me up and carrying me bridal style," Tony says half-blind, pawing at him with a sense of urgency, and then he feels how Rogers lifts him in his arms and he can't even do anything about it. "God, the first thing I tell you not to do. What the hell is wrong with you? You get a kick out of antagonizing me? Is that it?"

"Maybe I do," Rogers whispers, and this time Tony lets his poor attempt at humor slide.

"What will you do if I throw up all over you? And believe me, I'll gladly do it if I have the chance," Tony says, eyes closed and cheek pressed against Rogers' chest. He can listen to Rogers' heart beating at a constant pace, just lulling him to sleep, and what the hell is wrong with Tony to be thinking about that?

"Nothing."

"Nothing, he says," Tony repeats. 

"That's right," Rogers says, and Tony wishes he could muster the strength to look at him, because he can't even imagine the kind of expression that Rogers has on his face right now.

"Take the elevator, I don't want anyone to see— Oh God, _my head,_ " Tony says, riding a fresh wave of pain and balling a fist around Rogers' shirt. "Just kill me now. You should've killed me back then, Rogers, it would've been kinder."

Rogers' heart starts beating so hard that he can feel it drumming against his head, and then everything goes dark. He loses the track of time. Vaguely, Tony thinks he remembers rinsing his mouth so that his tongue doesn't taste so bitter anymore and Rogers holding onto him with the same stubborn streak that Dum-E showed earlier. The next thing he knows is that he's tucked in his bed, Rogers is pressing a wet cloth against his forehead, and suddenly it all feels more personal than he was bargaining for.

"Tony?"

"Who else?" Tony whispers, his eyes open to a slit, and from what little he can see, Rogers is looking at him dead serious in the eye. "What now?"

Rogers takes a deep breath and then blurts, "You're—you're not dying and not telling us, are you?"

Tony has no clue where's that coming from, but it sounds like an accusation. _Look at me, I'm Captain America! Sometimes my teammates don't tell me things and I can't handle when that happens. I'm the only gatekeeper of secrets here, so you better tell me or else I'll judge you really hard!_ He sounds like he drank the old SHIELD Kool-Aid, and Tony is so sick of that attitude of wanting to know it all without letting on anything in return. "We're all dying," Tony says tongue in cheek, but it makes Rogers suck in his breath so sharply that Tony can only backtrack and add, "No, I'm not dying at the present moment. Not that I know, nope."

" _Good,_ " Rogers says, and to Tony's surprise, he sounds like he means it. There could be so many reasons for that, and Tony doesn't know where to start. Perhaps Rogers wants the privilege of taking him out himself to stop him from blowing up the world one of these days, because that's obviously the kind of faith he has in him. But if that had been the case, he would have taken care of that in Siberia, so maybe Tony's off the mark here. 

Perchance Rogers knows him a little better than that and knows that despite his big mouth, Tony has enough finesse and cred—yes, he still has some—to handle the current mess. On the other hand, he must also be aware that there's a team of lawyers on call, and if the need arose, a certain Natalie Rushman from Legal can take over. 

The same goes for resources. Running out of money isn't something the Avengers are ever going to have to worry about in the not so unlikely event of his demise. Tony has trust funds set in place, and T'Challa also assured him of his full cooperation on the matter. So what is it, then? Maybe he really runs the best biker gang B&B there is, and somehow that makes more sense, because Tony goes through all the other reasons and nothing else seems to fit.

"Uh-huh, I'm glad myself. Not dying, yay," Tony says dryly, looking away from him. "Well, now that you know, you can get on with your life. There's the door, same place where it was last time."

"I'm not leaving you alone," Rogers says, and apparently that’s the end of the discussion because there's only so much Tony can do to force him out when he can barely lift a finger.

" _Fine,_ suit yourself. Why don't you make yourself at home while you're at it? That chair over there is _really_ comfy," Tony says, biting the words, and then, after a beat, "Am I supposed to thank you now or something? Is that what you're waiting for?"

"You can still be as angry at me as you were before." Rogers actually sits on the chair that Tony suggested, and the funny thing is that he looks surprised at finding out that it's pretty comfy. Of course it is, that wasn't a lie. Maybe he should have suggested the floor.

"Good, because I am angry. And it's not that I needed your permission nor your blessing to keep on keeping on."

Rogers sighs. "Of course not."

"Okay, just making sure you know," Tony says, settling against the pillows and trying to work against the pain. He needs to be distracted, he needs to tinker with things, but it just happens that Rogers is the only thing around that he can interact with. Well, so be it. "This is becoming a habit of yours and I don't particularly like it. Something wrong with your room? Are you afraid of the dark, big guy? There's no Red Skull hiding in the closet or under your bed, honey, I made sure to check first."

"Tony, you don't have to tell me what you're doing, but _please_ tell someone," Rogers almost sounds like he's pleading now, and Tony wonders if it never occurred to him to pursue acting in addition to the fine arts. God, he's surrounded by drama queens.

"It's just BARF," Tony says.

" _Just_ barf," Rogers repeats incredulously.

"Yup."

" _Binarily Augmented Retro Framing,_ " FRIDAY, who's been clearly biding her time to insert herself into the conversation, says all of a sudden.

"Mute!" Tony says, and that brings everything to a halt. "You know, I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't have FRIDAY follow you wherever you go like a shadow, reading each line of the Accords for you to listen." He closes his eyes then, his thoughts growing more muddled by the minute. "I'm also thinking of Easter eggs hidden all around the compound for you to find. Or fortune cookies, each one of them with a subparagraph nicely tucked inside. How would you like that?"

 

 

Steve doesn't consider himself to be rash. Determined, perhaps, when the world's safety is on the line, but that would be about it. So when Tony talks about having FRIDAY read the Accords to him and Steve's first impulse is to come clean just because he wants Tony to sound less broken about it, he's surprised to say the least. Steve doesn't say anything, of course, because he's barely started to comb through the document, and for all he knows, he may very well decide in the end that his position hasn't shifted an inch.

But the words still feel like they're stuck in his throat, thick and heavy precisely because they're unspoken. His wish for them to agree on the Accords used to mean Tony seeing the light at last, but he has moments of weakness when it feels like it doesn't matter who's right as long as they are on the same side. He thinks of Sam telling him that the people who shoot at Steve usually wind up shooting at him too, and he thinks of Wanda's desire for atonement and a life with some semblance of normalcy, and he's no longer sure whether he isn't bringing them down with him in his quest for righteousness.

He even thinks of how, by not signing, he's only able to help with minor homeland security missions. Unlike before, quite a few governments are more than willing to stop him from crossing their borders no matter what it takes, and judging by what he has seen, these decisions are usually not the acts of despots, but backed by the population.

 _Wouldn't you consider that freedom also means the right of peoples to refuse your help and deem your presence unwelcome?_ Steve recalls T'Challa saying, his eyes fixed on the dark of the night as though he were able to see things Steve could not. _Do you possess enough self-awareness to know when you cease to be a protector and become an oppressor? Do you remember fear, Captain? And if you do, can you still say that you don't understand why people are afraid of your actions? It's not your blood the one spilled forth on the ground, but theirs._

Steve tries to remember all the people they saved, and among them, those whose loved ones they failed to reach out in time, but they're a sea of nameless faces. Is he still able to feel the kind of fear he saw in their eyes as their whole world was destroyed? Wasn't he supposed to know what it was like to feel small and powerless? He remembers being far too weak to stop bullies from doing whatever they wanted no matter how hard he tried, and seen from the eyes of a terrified civilian, Steve isn't so sure that the Avengers don't look like the agents of destruction they were supposed to stop in the first place.

And God, he remembers Bucky telling him in such few words that he felt accountable for the things he hadn't wanted to do. He remembers Bucky saying that he was better off frozen because he couldn't trust his own mind, and how Steve had fought him all the way because taking responsibility meant not ever giving up. It meant not removing yourself from the equation just because it was convenient. Taking responsibility for your actions meant rising and acting in spite and because of your past wrongs, and Steve didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He didn't know what he was asking of Bucky.

 _Steve, that's dangerously arrogant,_ Rhodes' words echo in his mind, and if the safest hands are truly his own, then why did he fail to stop Rumlow in time? How could anyone trust that his judgment wouldn't be compromised in the future? Could he guarantee that his emotional state wouldn't make him fallible again?

 _He told me that you're wrong, but you think you're right,_ the kid from Queens had said, echoing Tony's words. _And that makes you dangerous._

"Tony," Steve whispers because he needs to talk to him in some way. And he needs to have the Accords with him right now, he needs Tony to fight him on paper, to disagree with him, to be his foil, to not leave him alone in the off chance that he's wrong after all. "Tony, I may be an asshole, and I know I have no right to ask, but I still need you to do this for me. I need you to— Tony, I need you."

Tony is still sleeping, lips parted and brow furrowed into a little knot, and Steve waits until he makes sure that Tony is as fine as he can be at the moment. He dims the lights afterwards and walks to the bathroom, throwing cold water on his face.

"FRIDAY, what is BARF?" Steve asks, and although he doesn't really expect an answer because Tony left her on mute, his phone buzzes right on cue. It's a single message, a link that opens to an extract of Tony's talk at MIT, and not even a minute goes by before he recognizes the lady signing so sweetly on-screen.

His fingers are hovering over his phone as she touches Tony with a brand of gentleness that makes his chest ache, and even if his eyes sting, he can't look away. All he can do is stare as he finally understands what Tony has been doing to himself. _An extremely costly method of hijacking the hippocampus to clear traumatic memories,_ the Tony on the video says.

"FRIDAY, this is from— The date of the talk is—" Steve mumbles, and there's another buzz, but he already knows what the answer is going to be without looking at the message. It's from before everything went to hell, before Tony learned that his parents had been murdered. The video keeps playing, and Tony's voice is clear like ice, fresh like recently fallen snow.

_Don't bullshit me, Rogers, did you know?_

Steve carefully places his phone on the vanity, hands seizing each corner until the marble bites into his skin, and for the first time in a long while, he breaks down. He doesn't make a sound, or at least he doesn't think he does, but it feels like something is piercing him from the inside out. "What did I— Tony, what did I do to you?"

He must have been blind before, because it feels like he's only now beginning to understand the magnitude of his decision and the damage that each ripple left behind. Only now does he realize how costly it was to keep this secret from Tony, and he can't believe his luck. The fact that Tony is in speaking terms with him feels like such a miracle that hoping for anything other than being the single focus of his anger seems greedy—

—and even then, Steve still hopes, because just a while ago Tony was warmth in his arms, something he could touch instead of longing for, and he wishes he could always be there for Tony to make it up to him, even in some small measure, for having failed him the most.

When he returns to the bedroom, nothing seems to have changed. The lights remain dim and Tony continues sleeping, but Steve doesn't feel the same anymore. He sits in the dark, heart drumming inside his chest, and it's only when he focuses on the rhythmic pattern of Tony's breathing that the pressure eases up. He sighs and leans back against the chair, and he's thankful to find that it's neither too hard nor too soft, just solid enough for him to stop feeling like he's falling.

 

 

"Wake up, sunshine," Tony says first thing in the morning, his hip jabbing Steve's shoulder so hard he almost falls off the chair. "Slept well?"

"Tony," Steve says blearily, watching Tony cover the span of his room in what seems like certain steps, except that there's something wobbly about him all the same. "Are you okay?"

"Better than ever," comes the reply, even though he's almost running into things and leaning against the walls for support here and there. "I'm pretty sure you're not planning to join me in the shower, so unless I'm missing something here, I'd say you've overstayed your welcome."

"And what if you fall while you're in there?" Steve says, which sounds pretty dumb even if it's a legitimate concern.

"I don't know. I bet FRIDAY will spill the beans if I crack my head open, so you'll be able to put on your show of caring and being the knight in shining armor without issue. That okay with you?" Tony says, and there's that tickle on Steve's belly again, wisps of irritation at Tony being so flippant about it all when he was so awfully sick the night before.

"Tony, listen—" _It's not a show. I do care. How can I make you see that?_

"No, Rogers, _you_ listen. What are you playing at? What do you want from me? Alright, maybe you can't stand the idea of someone being mad at you, but deal with it! Fucking deal with it and stop bothering me. We're teammates, not friends, and I'm not even sure about being teammates these days. Just get the hell out of here so I can be at peace in my _own_ room."

"Tony—"

"Shut up and leave!"

"No, _you_ shut up! You can't even be trusted with taking good care of yourself!" Steve says sharply, and Tony looks at him as though he had just slapped him.

"I've been doing just that since I was 21, thanks to _your_ —" Tony says, biting his tongue at the very last moment. "And it's not so different from nursing a hangover, something I have plenty of experience with, unlike yourself. I've been through this many times before. You ever thought about that?"

"Hijacking your brain is not the same as being hungover! Christ, Tony, are you for real?"

"Who told—? FRIDAY, was it?"

"I watched your MIT talk!" Steve yells, and all of his anger is swept away the moment he remembers Tony's mother kissing his cheek so tenderly. "Tony, I'm sorry."

Tony grows quiet, his eyes hard on Steve. " _Get out._ "

"I'm sorry," he repeats, but there's just something about Tony that pushes him into extremes, something that makes Steve want to watch over him one minute and that provokes him into anger the next. "And fine, I _will_ get out, but you better be aware that if I find out you're doing that to yourself again, I'm going to be _there,_ and that's a promise."

"Well, I'll make sure to barf all over you next time!"

"Okay, you go ahead! You think I'm afraid of such a small thing or something?" Steve yells back and slams the door on his way out, and suddenly he feels so bone-tired that he has to lean against something for one second. Could anyone look at him straight in the eye and tell him that this is progress? Because from where he stands, it doesn't seem so. All it seems is that fighting is the only thing he and Tony are good at.

 _It's your thing,_ Natasha's words come back to him, and Steve doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It's useless to go down that path now, isn't it? To consider all the what-ifs and might-have-beens in the same way that Tony envisions the future. And it's the thing with Steve, he's always turning towards the past whether he means to or not._

The sky is changing quickly when he looks out the window. There are traces of gold at first, then a soft shade of blue that deepens with each passing minute, and he wishes he could pull a notepad and a small case of watercolors to portray each detail in ways that a photograph cannot. Recreating an object through strokes of your own often infuses it with feeling, and Steve finds his fingers moving of its own accord, painting clouds on the back of his hand to preserve the moment.

Nothing is left behind afterwards, of course, and he misses this—drawing, painting, _creating_ instead of destroying. The longing grows into some sort of ache at times, but he's been denying himself the pleasure these days, this particular way of making sense of the world that served him so well before, and then after he woke up years into the future.

All he doodles lately are random shapes on a notebook he keeps close to him as he reads the Accords, circles more often than not, and across the middle, a deep-set groove, a gap that screams like an open wound. He shades cracks and fading light, and this is the only thing he allows himself to sketch, lines devoid of color that he smudges with his fingertips before he lays his pencil down.

It's the third time he pours through the document. His notes from earlier remain in place, making the compilation bulkier than it is, but few of his objections hold the same strength. By all means, the revised document isn't perfect. The section granting the Avengers a wider margin of action isn't the safeguard he would have hoped for, not to mention that the procedure to raise a complaint seems bureaucratic in excess. It illustrates perfectly why they would have been better off taking matters in their own hands, especially when it comes to time-sensitive missions.

_He'll be so fucking delighted about this. Won't you, Rogers? Well, tough luck, since we do need oversight._

Penned in red, Tony's comment frames the conditions to be met, and here's the part where he's one hundred percent right—Steve isn't happy about it. In fact, if Vienna had never happened, he would have continued opposing what amounts to a longer leash disguised as freedom. If there had been no Vienna, there would have been no Bucharest, no Berlin, no Leipzig, no Siberia, and Steve would have had little reason to doubt his initial stance. But so much has happened since then, and every single incident now colors all of his views.

Because this is what he sees now that he looks at the document, not the limitations that are still set in place, but the hard work that went into ensuring that the Avengers had a say at all after what happened. Steve sees past the anger spilled on each page, his fingers following the shape of Tony's handwriting, and he wonders just what kind of strength Tony had to have within himself to carry on like this, to set his pain aside and devote all of his efforts to get them back home. How could Steve not want to repay that debt? Except that this doesn't seem to be the way to go, not quite. If things had been this simple, he would have signed ages ago and none of this would have happened.

But no, they aren't simple in the least.

He shuffles the stack of papers until he has the copy of the signature page in his hands, the one where Tony's _colorful_ description of him takes up the space his rubric would have filled if only he had joined Natasha on her way to Vienna. Sometimes he wonders whether there's anything he could have done if he had been there, if Zemo's plot would have been revealed any sooner if only he—

It's useless to go down that path now, isn't it? To consider all the what-ifs and might-have-beens in the same way that Tony envisions the future. And it's the thing with Steve, he's always turning towards the past whether he means to or not. It's a force of habit by now, and God knows that in a world that's still foreign to him in ways both big and small, he finds comfort in routine. Sure, he adapts quickly. That doesn't mean he likes it.

Their stay in Wakanda was tough. Sam and the others felt relieved at first, and Steve did too, but he could tell they were getting more and more antsy as the days went by. He had few answers to give them once they reached that point, no way to tell when they would be able to return or whether they would be able to return at all without risking imprisonment.

Bucky decided to go back into the ice not long afterwards, almost as soon as he learned that the option was available to him, and even though they had a few days for themselves, reminiscing their childhood adventures as they explored the marvel that was T'Challa's kingdom, Steve couldn't help feeling he was being abandoned. It was selfish of him to think that way, he knew. He still couldn't help it. In the end, he accepted that it was yet another thing he didn't get to keep. What else was new? He was always looking back, missing something.

He barely slept those first nights in Wakanda, pacing around his room as though he were inside a cage. His thoughts turned to home and all of what he left behind, and Tony was there front and center, aching like something broken, lost. Steve had never hurt anyone this badly. He had spent most of his life bearing the brunt of others' unkindness, which he took in stride, really. He could handle this anytime, anywhere, you name it, he could do this all day. Which is why being on the other side of that was simply baffling. And maybe first times were always a mess, all-around disastrous, because it was almost as if he had gone the extra mile hurting Tony.

He didn't know what he was hoping for when he sent that letter. All Steve knew was that this couldn't possibly be the end when they had barely started. He hadn't even told Tony he was sorry. And so he started carrying the phone T'Challa gave him the moment the parcel left his hands, even if it would be days before it reached the compound.

"Tony's a good man, Buck, he really is. I know he tried to kill you, but—" Steve began, fishing the phone from his pocket only to tuck it away again, and just what kind of poor cosmic joke was his life that he had to explain something like this to people he cared about other people he cared about? How was this a thing? Because this is exactly how he should have told Tony the truth, even if it sounded outrageous. _Bucky was behind your parents' death, Tony, but he would have never done this if it weren't for HYDRA. You have to believe me, Tony, Bucky's a good man._

Bucky sighed, looking at him with that old half-fond, half-pained look that spelled _You're hopeless._ "The man who's given us lodging wanted to kill me for the same reasons, and he actually had time to think things through. You don't have to explain yourself to me, Steve."

If he had signed in time, maybe Bucky could have come home. Tony would have been spared the pain of learning the truth in the way he had, and Steve wouldn't have felt like he had been uprooted from his place in the world once more.

He wishes things were like they used to be, even if he knows it's impossible. And he wishes he had it in him to sign now, but he can't bring himself to take that final, indelible step, not yet. He thinks of how easy it was to make them all believe they were working for the good guys when it was HYDRA calling the shots, and the distrust remains.

It's true that the United Nations isn't the World Security Council. It isn't SHIELD nor HYDRA, but just as regimes can be toppled overnight, so can democracies become the opposite. Who will keep an eye on those in power then? History is never in want of people whose goal is to stand above others, people who actually have the means to make that happen, warping the structures set in place so that they suit all of their designs. It's too easy to tip the scales away from good, and the worst part is that hardly anyone sees it coming until it's too late, until men and women who used to call themselves upstanding citizens do the unthinkable, rallied by monsters. He's seen it before. It's too easy.

The Accords could tie their hands in such a scenario. But here's where Tony's also right—that wouldn't stop Steve. There's a smile tugging on his lips, because if it came to breaking the law and doing what's right, he would always choose the latter, consequences be damned. And if he's willing to do that, does it really matter whether he signs or not?

He knows he's too stubborn for his own good, sometimes. God, he knows that. He didn't want to listen when Natasha said that staying together was more important than how they did it, even if he should have, because when all's said and done, he's not half as good on his own as he's with the whole team—with Tony—at his side.

Maybe this time the Accords can really make a difference instead of becoming shackles.

Maybe he can let this one go and take them as they come, together.

Maybe.

 

 

"Time's up. Hope you're happy about not listening to me," Tony says, barging into the kitchen area. It's pretty early, and while that's normal for Steve, in Tony's case it likely means he pulled an all-nighter yet again.

"Good to see you, Tony," Steve says, setting down his mug on the counter. He's not being flippant. It's true that he's glad to see him, but it still gets a rise out of Tony because that's the way things are between them these days. _Here's your new normal, Rogers. Get used to it._

"Well, I can't say the same."

Steve lets out a small puff of air. "What is it?"

"You know?" Tony starts, taking a seat even though he doesn't remain still for a single moment. He's fidgeting all the way, drumming his fingers on the table and changing the angle in which he leans against the chair every five seconds. All in all, he's distracted enough that Steve gets away with pushing some toast his way, which Tony starts eating before he even realizes what he's doing. "When I stop to think how you've made me waste my time so stupidly when there's something bigger brewing in the horizon— What's this?"

"Toast."

"What, did you poison this?" Tony asks, his cheek still puffed up with the bite he took.

"No, Tony, I didn't poison it," Steve says, and if his face doesn't betray any emotion, it's only to avoid provoking Tony any further.

Tony squints at that and stands up. Apparently, he ends up deeming the risk low enough because he resumes eating after he's facing away, and Steve can't help remembering the first time they met, Tony glaring at him after Steve called the Stark Tower ugly, Tony offering him a snack in the middle of an argument, Tony asking him if he was above or below angry bees. It seems so long ago now that not even the world feels the same.

"Rumor has it that all of you will have to get your asses to D.C. pretty soon. As a matter of fact, I'd bet your invitations are already in the mail. As for trials, we don't know yet whether they'll try to go for it afterwards," Tony says, and then, in a whisper, "Let them _try._ "

"It was my responsibility, Tony. The others merely—"

"You think that's going to stand?" Tony barks a laugh even if his eyes are joyless.

Steve shakes his head, suppressing a sigh. "No."

"I guess it could be argued that the agreement hadn't yet entered into force when you went on your merry way. No one had ratified it by then, and now there's a new text. So if there are any charges, I doubt it would be under the Accords' framework. That's what I'm assuming, at least," Tony says, and his eyes are on Steve when he adds, "but then again, my assumptions aren't always _right._ Legal is hard at work on that, we're going to fetch Barton and Lang to have a little Crime and Punishment-themed get-together, and well, I thought I'd give you a heads up in case you and your half of the team have anything to reconsider."

"Do you really think signing the Accords is going to make a difference at this point?" Steve asks, and unlike before, he actually wants to know the answer to that. There's no reason why Steve has to drag the others down with him all over again. There's no reason why they can't decide for themselves what's best for them.

Tony gives him a tense shrug.

"Goodwill gestures aren't always a waste of time and effort, you know? They can be a political statement, sometimes. They can signal a will to compromise. Ooh, did you catch that? I just said _compromise._ Aren't you going to tell me to watch my language?" Tony asks, and for all his wisecracks, for all his little jabs and acerbic remarks, for all his penchant for jamming buttons rather than just pushing them, Steve's so very glad he gets to be on the end of that instead of hearing nothing but radio silence.

"Other times, some gestures come across as empty. They're too little, too late," Tony says tiredly, standing by the sink, and they're not talking about the Accords anymore, are they? "No coffee grounds this time. Either T'Challa tamed the lot of you or I came by too early to find any evidence."

Steve sighs. Even if he were to tell Tony that signing the Accords isn't the impossibility it would have been once, he knows that wouldn't cut it, not anymore. If anything, it would be more likely to anger Tony than give him peace of mind. It's simply too little, too late. Still, there's so much Steve would like to tell him. How sorry he is, how grateful. How he doesn't deserve a second chance, but if only Tony would let him back in, Steve would make sure he never came to regret it. "Tony."

"Save it, Rogers. I don't need you driving the point home again, thanks. You're not changing your mind ever and I'm done asking you to sign pretty please with sugar on top, sending flowers, begging on my knees, the whole shtick. It's not my neck on the line, so what do I care? You're all here. I made my part. It's all on you, going forward. Fuck it up, don't fuck it up, _whatever._ It's not my problem. Not my circus, not my monkeys. None of it has any bearing on me," Tony says, and before going, he looks at Steve in the eye and takes all the toast with him.

 

 

Scott is the first one to talk. "Cap, I think you're great. And there's this camaraderie between all of us now, you know what I mean? This bond. We're brothers in arms now, people who stick together through thick and thin. It's just that, well, how can I put this? It's just that I made a promise to Cassie. I promised my little girl—"

"Relax, man, we're not going on the run or anything like that," Sam says.

"Oh. Oh, _good._ Not that I wouldn't have stepped up if the situation had called for it, of course, but this is good news. I just thought, you know, because of the van, and the air of secrecy, and everything."

Clint puts a hand on his shoulder. "Easy."

"Yeah," Scott says. "I'm cool."

"Are we hiding from Tony?" Wanda asks, and it's obvious from the look on her face that she finds all of this beyond foolish. "FRIDAY must know where we are by now."

"Clearly not everybody here could earn a living as a spy. Just be glad Cap didn't choose the venue this time," Clint quips. "It sure would've been cramped."

"It was," Sam says. "I told him, _A VW Bug? Really?_ Even Barnes raised an eyebrow at that."

Clint snickers before he turns to Steve. "So what's this about, Cap? You want us to present a united front against Stark or something?"

"No, quite the opposite. I wanted to set some things straight before the meeting," Steve says, leaning forward. His hands are gripping his knees hard. "There are things you need to know. Things you need to understand. Because you see, all Tony has done so far is try to help—"

"Yeah, no," Clint scoffs. "He was helping Ross, not us. With friends like that, who needs enemies?"

"He went to Siberia to help us, Clint. Sam knows that. Tony went all the way to Siberia unbeknownst to Ross, and all he got for his pains was—"

"Oh yeah, I've heard that one before, but that's just you being noble. How do you expect us to believe he went to help you out when you ended up without your shield and your best friend without an arm? Last time we saw Bucky he still had two arms, metal or otherwise, but two."

Steve closes his hand into a fist. "Would you just listen for five seconds?"

"Okay, okay, I'm listening," Clint says.

"Zemo planned everything to the last detail. He didn't leave anything out. He was banking on the fact that Tony would find out the truth and leave it all to help us, which he did. And for a moment there, it truly felt like we might be able to make things work, after all," Steve says, throat tightening up. He can still remember the click before the grainy footage appeared before them, the sound of Tony's steps as he came closer, and then the brief look he gave Steve before he said, _I know that road._

"And then Zemo showed us a tape. Tony's parents didn't die because of a car accident. HYDRA sent the Winter Soldier to kill them. Bucky, he wasn't himself then," Steve says, trying to keep his voice level, "but he still was the one who killed Howard and Maria Stark, and Tony saw it all in great detail."

"Oh," Scott mutters.

"Fuck," Clint says. " _Fuck._ "

"And I knew this." Wanda's eyes are boring into him, but Steve presses on. "Ever since the fall of SHIELD. I knew all this time and I never told Tony. I thought I was sparing him, but all I made sure of was that Zemo got what he wanted." _To destroy him. To destroy us._

_I've lost everyone,_ Zemo had told him, secure in the knowledge that he had made good on his promise. _And so will you._

Wanda opens her mouth to say something then, her whole body tense, but in the end she leaves without saying a single word, slamming the door closed on her way out. Scott makes a motion in the same direction, but Clint stops him. "Let her be for a moment."

"All Tony did was try to help," Steve repeats, "even if it came at a personal cost. He did everything in his power to bring us home despite all of this. That's the kind of man Tony Stark really is, Scott. He's always trying to make things right. You know that now, Sam. You used to know that, Clint. Tony didn't keep you away from your family, Ross did."

Clint winces, head down even as he whispers, "Say, Cap, just curious. Why the hell you didn't share the whole story before? You threw Tony under the bus just like that. I can't believe it."

"Well, if I remember correctly, and I happen to think I do, you did call him all sort of things back in the Raft," Scott says, and when Clint turns to look at him, he just adds a shrug. "Just saying, man. That's kind of on you. I wasn't exactly pleasant either, but you know."

"Fine, that one's all on me. But still, Cap here didn't deem it important enough—"

"I was trying to—" Steve starts. 

"Well, you obviously didn't try hard enough," Clint retorts, and this time he actually hits the mark. Tony didn't deserve any of what Clint told him before, but Steve does. "Was it because of Bucky? It was, wasn't it? Oh, I _see._ So you didn't tell Tony because of Bucky. And you didn't tell us the whole truth about what went down in Siberia because of Bucky, too. What, you were afraid we would turn against him if we knew he had—"

" _Yes,_ " Steve blurts, blood rushing to his ears. "I wanted him to have a moment's respite before they put him under. All Bucky has known ever since he departed to the front all those years ago is bloodshed and torture. I wish I was exaggerating. And I know I should have done this much earlier. I know waiting too long seems to be something I do. Bucky himself told me I shouldn't worry about him, that I should tell you what happened in Siberia. He told me, _Secrets and you don't mesh well, Steve._ Damn right we don't mesh well. I know I should have said something, but I didn't. Despite of what many people seem to think, I'm _not_ perfect. I make mistakes _too._ "

"You should ask yourself why you don't trust us enough. Bucky isn't your only friend in the whole world, you know? And I know what's like to not have a choice, to do things you wouldn't ever want to do," Clint says in a low voice. "Why did you think I wouldn't understand?"

"Maybe because you're a bit of a Judgy McJudgerson. I mean, you come across as rather _intense,_ " Scott says. "Wait, that was a rhetorical question, wasn't it? I'll shut up now."

"What Tic-Tac here means to say is that you were kind of an ass, Clint. But I guess all of us were at some point."

"Alright, I won't argue with you this time," Clint says, raising his hands in defeat. "Earned it. I got full marks on being an asshole. I'll hang my head down low now."

"Yeah, and Cap? So what if you make mistakes?" Scott waves a hand in front of his face. "You're human. Big deal. Happens to the best of us. You fall, you rise again. You screw things up, you make up for it in any way you can. You keep on."

Steve allows himself to smile, if briefly. "Thank you."

"Hey, anytime," Scott says, leaning towards Sam to add, "See, I told you we're all chummy now."

"There's something else we need to talk about."

"Oh boy, that tone," Clint says. "What is it, Cap?"

"As you know, there's a revised version of the Accords," Steve says, and the first thing that comes to mind is how light the bulk of the document felt in his hands while Tony spoke of a different kind of weight. "I want you to read the document and decide for yourselves if it's something you agree with. If it is, sign. If it's not, be aware that there are only two paths left, retirement or—"

"The Raft," Clint says.

"No, neither Tony nor I would allow that. Besides, the Accords now insist on due process."

"Really?" Sam says, obviously not convinced yet.

"Now, when you consider your choices, don't just take into account who you are as Avengers, but also who you are outside of it all," Steve says, and his voice is clear enough that Wanda can listen to him from outside if she wishes. "I want you, sincerely, to take a look at a mirror and ask what you want for yourselves. This line of work calls for sacrifices, and not wanting to give up all of who you are on the altar of heroism doesn't make you worse nor weaker than others. I would argue the opposite, actually. We need our humanity. Think long and hard about this."

Scott looks at him. "Are you going to sign, Cap?"

"Yeah, are you?" Clint asks. "Inquiring minds want to know."

"I . . . have to think about this long and hard as well."

"As long as you aren't doing this just because you want to face all this on your own," Sam says, crossing his arms. "As long as you don't want us to go ahead and sign just because neither of us is Captain America and we stand to lose more in this than you. Because it isn't like that, is it, Steve? We're not wimps, we can take it."

"It's not like that, Sam," Steve says, meaning it.

"Well, that was productive," Clint says, sagging into the seat. "And now what the hell do I say to Tony?" 

"You should think about that long and hard too," Sam deadpans. "Maybe next time you won't run your mouth like that."

"I hear flowers are a nice touch," Scott says, which earns a nod of approval from Sam.

"Flowers? In that case Cap would have to buy the whole florist shop," Clint says. "You got him one, Cap?"

"You got one for Laura?" Steve says before he gets out of the van and goes looking for Wanda.

"Damn."

"I didn't see that one coming."

"I did. From miles away, even."

Steve doesn't have to go far. He finds Wanda sitting cross-legged on the roof of the van, her hands tucked in the pockets of her jacket.

"So that's why you felt guilty. I thought it was about Bucky, but it was about Tony. It all makes sense now." Before Steve says anything, she adds, "I wasn't snooping. I just tend to pick up enough to make an informed guess. It's not something I control, I just do."

Steve nods and says, "You expected more of me." It's not a question.

"I did. Those were his _parents,_ " she says, still reeling from it. Our losses define us for better or for worse, and Steve thinks of Bucky slipping out of his reach and into the snow, he pictures Wanda and Pietro trapped under debris, their world falling apart; he remembers Tony talking about the things he had done to avoid processing his grief. And not only he had never gotten closure, Steve had made it all fresh again.

"He's hurting because of you," Wanda says sharply, and it doesn't sound like a guess at all, but like the truth Steve knows it is. "In the end, both of you like to think you know better than others. Who would have thought."

"I know I made a choice for him I had no right to make, Wanda."

"If it were me, I would never forgive you. But well, you never know. I forgave him. He forgave _me,_ " she says, jumping from the roof in a single, seamless motion, rivulets of energy wrapping around her as they cushion her fall. "I'm signing the Accords, Steve."

"If you're sure," Steve says. "If you're sure, then that's the best thing you can do."

"I almost signed back then. And yes, this time I'm sure. I'll atone in any way I can. I'll become stronger. I'll be more careful. I won't give up," Wanda says, and all of a sudden, she doesn't look like a kid, not anymore.

 

 

"All of you will be speaking with our team of lawyers, no ifs, ands, or buts. That includes you, Rogers. These hearings may not be legally binding, but what you end up parroting out there matters a great fucking deal, do you understand? Good, we're all clear then. I see a hand up, are you kidding—" Tony says, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Yes, Lang?"

"Thank you," Scott says with a sheepish smile. "For everything."

Tony blinks, letting his arms fall limp at his sides. He swings back into business as usual with ease, but Steve sees it for what it is, Tony letting his guard down. "Sure, whatever. Class dismissed, kids. Now shoo, move along."

"Tony," Clint mutters. "Can we talk for a sec?"

"We just did, Barton," Tony says without looking up from his phone, but then something seems to click, for he raises his head and looks at Steve, a glint in his eye. "But you, Rogers, not so fast."

Clint gives Steve's back a tiny pat on his way out.

"You told them something," Tony says once they're alone, pacing back and forth. 

"I had a word with them," Steve says.

There's that light on Tony's eyes again, everything falling into place, and Steve wishes he could get to see it under a whole different set of circumstances. "You told them. Let me get this straight, you hide this from me for who knows how long, and now, all of a sudden, you feel like treating it as water cooler gossip."

"They needed to know what happened, if anything so that they stopped you treating you unfairly. You don't deserve that, especially not after all the things you've done."

"Always looking out for me and my well-being, aren't you? I can't thank you _enough._ Now I have to deal with their misplaced looks of pity. _Oh, there goes Stark, that poor fuck._ It would have been much better if they had kept thinking of me as the devil. I would have preferred that."

"No, you wouldn't have. Absolutely no one in their right mind would want their friends to think that. They would want their understanding, their compassion. This isn't about pity. Did you hear that, Tony? It's not pity."

"What do you know," Tony says, turning away from him. "It doesn't matter, anyway. I don't care what they think."

Steve lets it go, even if he knows that's not true. Tony can say that all that he wants, but it makes a difference, doesn't it? It makes a difference to know that you aren't alone, that you're not fighting against the world all on your own. "Wanda is signing the Accords."

"What?"

"She is."

This time Tony takes a seat, letting all of his weight rest against the chair. He looks so relieved, so unwound all at once, that it makes Steve's heart ache. "If she does, then I almost don't care what happens to the rest of you. She isn't—"

"—an American citizen, I know. I think there's a good chance the others will sign too. Sam isn't completely sold on it, but he was open to the idea before."

"So that's everybody except you. Were you always this lacking in common sense or is it the serum making it all worse? Or maybe the time you spent in the ice. Even the best freezer can't work miracles. The food ends up tasting all bland, eventually," Tony says, but he doesn't sound angry anymore, just tired.

"I took five exams in five different cities, back when they were recruiting for the war. They always gave me a 4F," Steve says with a sigh and a little smile. "I guess I have a stubborn streak."

" _You don't say,_ " Tony says, standing up again to resume pacing around the room. "Was this so hard, Steve? The two of us talking things out. Was it so hard? You didn't tell me—you didn't tell me so _many_ things. But as teammates. You only told me about that threat when I had, what, half a day to bring you in? To make sure none of you got shot? Do you think I could even focus on what you were telling me then?"

"I made a bad call, Tony. I thought the Accords wouldn't let you help, even if you knew."

"Yet I did," Tony says. "Me, helping others. It must have been quite the shock."

"It's not like—"

"I feel like I'm always jumping through hoops with you, bending backwards. And it's never enough. I always fall short. What did I have to do for you to trust me after Ultron? Did I have to go through another wormhole and _not_ come back? Is that it?"

"Don't say that," Steve says. It comes out in a small, weak voice. "Don't say that even in jest. It's all on me for not telling you when it would have made a difference. It's all on me, not on you."

"I need a break," Tony says, fishing out his sunglasses before he turns to leave. "Make sure you talk with the lawyers. Believe it or not, I don't want to see you end up in jail."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He has wilted in many ways ever since, and if he believed in souls, he would say that his has aged far beyond the constraints of his body. He feels older than he looks, more weary, with the tally of all the things he has lost ever so present. He's a changed man in a whole different way now._

Ridiculous as it sounds coming from the likes of him, someone who would scoff at the mere suggestion that ignorance is bliss, there are times when that's exactly what he wishes he could get back, the unapologetic ignorance of all the things that populate his nightmares in the same way that creepy-crawlies flourish under rocks, that and the shameless naivety. It's not the kind of thing anyone would expect from him, he knows. If he were to bring up the good old days, most people would think that what he really misses is the extravagance, the self-indulgence. _Same old Tony,_ they would say before getting on with their lives, and as is often the case when it comes to popular opinion about the kind of man he is, they would be wrong.

There was simply ample room for discovery back when he knew no better, for having his eyes opened to a world far wider than his own, for the kind of childlike wonder he experienced when he donned his redesigned suit for the first time, feeling weightless, unburdened, as if he could truly reach the stars. The time he spent in captivity had left him with scars both visible and imperceptible, but it hadn't managed to break him yet. Tony still believed he could do his part to make the world safer; he dared to imagine a life filled with richer things, a life worth living. He used to have so little, all kinds of things money could buy, for sure, but little where it counted, and only after coming back from the brink of death did he seem to remember it. This is what he longed for more than anything else, the warmth, the coziness, the feeling of belonging.

Undeserved or not, he had everything going for him for a while, and by God, he almost got to keep it. He took what his father built and transformed it into something that was truly his own, he had someone by his side who loved him in spite of who he was, he was part of an extraordinary team, he was out there doing good.

Life itself was good.

Good things don't last, he should know.

He has wilted in many ways ever since, and if he believed in souls, he would say that his has aged far beyond the constraints of his body. He feels older than he looks, more weary, with the tally of all the things he has lost ever so present. He's a changed man in a whole different way now.

The only thing that has remained as a constant throughout his life is his fondness for tinkering with things and letting his mind wander. It was true back when he was a kid and sneaked little things lying around the house, taking them apart only to rebuild them from the ground up without almost no one taking notice. It was true while he lived in the fast lane, and perhaps even more pressing then, because the only way not to lose himself completely was to draw away from the world at times, to ignore everything but the projects lined up in his workshop in various states of progress, from having JARVIS help him to fine-tune the hot rod's engine for the nth time to working on ciphers based on obscure languages just for fun, all the while he let Dum-E and U play tag around his desk.

Hell, it's true even now. He needs this like air, more than sleep. He can't spend too many days on a row without working on something small, at the very least, whether it's studying the inner workings of a cutaway diagram or wielding his trusty soldering iron in precise strokes. In fact, he suspects that this is one of the reasons why he didn't lose his mind back in that cave, because he was back to his roots in one way or another, each tool pliable between his fingers.

"So they're coming around," Rhodey says all of a sudden, making Tony jolt _slightly._ He tries to cover it up by shifting his posture a little and stretching to retrieve the circuit board he left aside not long ago, but it's too late. Rhodey is already shaking with honest-to-goodness laughter that's refreshing to hear. "You forgot I was even here."

"Not true. I had that piece of info running somewhere in the background," Tony says with a smirk. "And yeah, it seems like they're finally using whatever brain cell count they have at their disposal. It must have been on the low hundreds to begin with, given that they're just now seeing the light. Anyway, it's not any of my business."

" _Right._ You can't fool me, you know?"

Tony makes a face before he points at Rhodey's mobility aids. "Let's take a walk. I want to see how the adjustments hold up after some wear and tear."

"Wear and tear? Tony, they're fairly new. And they hold up as fine as they did all those times before," Rhodey says, rapping his knuckles on his hip by way of demonstration. "But as long as you get to stretch your legs instead of holing yourself up here, fine by me."

"Hey, this is important. When have you known me to make sloppy things?" Tony asks, eyebrows shot up high. "FRIDAY, alert me in case his motion pattern doesn't seem natural or seamless enough."

" _Will do, boss._ "

"I meant what I said before," Rhodey says. "You're less wound up these days. It shows. And if that's not caring, I don't know what is."

"What do you want me to say, honeybear, that I'm happy? I just feel underwhelmed. I'm utterly not impressed. This is my _good for you, but I don't give a fuck anymore_ face," Tony says with a shrug, and he isn't even lying. Fine, he admits that he felt a microscopic measure of relief upon learning that they had changed their minds about the Accords, but that was at first. Now all that's left is the same slump he gets into after the rush of designing something cool is gone, as if the goalposts had moved and all of his attention had shifted elsewhere. "Besides, the biggest idiot of them all is still entrenched in his views. I can't exactly be happy with him being a constant pain in the ass. Steve Rogers, the thorn in my side."

Rhodey smiles at that, looking ahead. "They ask me about you from time to time."

"Who?"

"All of them, very casually. Sam, more often than not. Sometimes it's Steve doing the asking through Sam. _He asked me to ask you to ask him how's he doing._ It's just that kind of vibe. It feels like we're back in high school passing little notes."

Tony rolls his eyes hard. "They loiter outside the lab, sometimes. It's as if they think I can't see them just because the glass walls are opaque. It feels like they're zombies on the loose gathering around the one sanctuary left."

" _Boss, look up._ "

"Maybe they're just sorry," Peter says on cue, hanging upside down.

"Holy— Kid, don't creep up on us like that. Rhodes is an easily spooked old man, please."

"Say what? Old man? Speak for yourself," Rhodey says, bumping his shoulder into Tony's fully on purpose. "Pete, you here for a training session?"

"Yes, I—"

Tony nods, affecting a serious look. "He's got a play date with our other youngsters, Vision and Wanda."

" _Hey._ It's not a play date, Mr. Stark," Peter says with a small frown, and Tony has to bite his cheek not to chuckle.

"Easy, Spider-Man. I'm not making light of you. Go ahead, have your training session. Don't let us keep you."

" _He's running late as it is._ "

"It's just not easy to escape Aunt May's all-seeing eye, FRIDAY. Aunts come equipped with their own monitoring system, you see." _All the more true if they are one of the founders of SHIELD,_ Tony thinks briefly. Was that really so long ago?

"Yeah, it isn't easy!" Peter yells as he climbs up the wall and then swings away, putting those high ceilings to good use. They watch him go, young and lively, and while not entirely carefree, not crushed yet by the kind of weight that pins down Tony. He has so little hope left, but oh God, how he hopes Peter doesn't ever learn the things he's had to learn.

"He's a good kid," Rhodey says, looking at Tony, and after a beat, Tony registers his words and nods. " _Maybe they're just sorry._ How about that?"

Tony lets out a big sigh. "Just you wait until I _fuck up_ again and they forget I'm anything other than a jerk," he says, air quotes framing his words, and it's not that he thinks love should always be unconditional, but no one should have to try this hard either. It shouldn't feel like you have to constantly prove yourself worthy of affection, and hoo-boy, didn't he have enough of that growing up. He's past that now. This is who he is. You either take it or leave it, and if it's the latter, well, don't let the door hit you on your way out.

Rhodey slings an arm around his shoulders, and Tony leans into it without shame. It's warm, truly warm, and he feels so cold lately. It's like he's back in Siberia, sometimes. "Well, in that case it would be their loss."

"See, I must have done something really, really good at some point in my life to get to keep you. I don't know what I'd do without you, buddy. You're one in a million."

"You're one in a million too, you know?" Rhodey says right back because he's nice like that.

"I know," Tony says, which earns a snort from Rhodey. "Imagine, another one just like me. What are the odds?"

"Truth be told," Rhodey says, still laughing, "I don't even want to imagine."

"Hold on, what are you implying?" Tony raises an eyebrow, but he knows it's all in good fun. 

He looks up to the skylight, at the limpid blue behind the glass, no clouds in sight. What are the odds, indeed? If there are creatures from outer space, gods, and other dimensions, who's to say there isn't more than one Tony Stark out there? If multiple universes are mathematically possible, there's got to be one where he actually gets to lead a happy life from beginning to end, come on. He can't be fucked in all of them, can he? There's got to be one where Steve Rogers never crushed his heart like that.

Maybe one where they never found him in the Artic. Entirely within the realm of possibilities, that. Finding him was such a stroke of luck, so it's easy to imagine a universe where he remained a Capsicle for all eternity. But God, that just makes Tony's stomach sink. Maybe one where they never met would suffice. The guy never goes into the ice, he gets to live his life, Tony gets to live his. Everybody's happy. His dad wouldn't have been so obsessed with Captain America then, so who knows, maybe—and this is a big maybe—he would have been less of a shitty father.

Except that . . . no. Maybe he's stupidly hard to please, but this scenario doesn't sit well with Tony. He thinks of how fighting next to Steve used to feel like, not against him but at his side, and the first thing he remembers is feeling alive, and isn't this the worst thing of all? He wishes it wasn't like this. He would really like to regret it all. Does wanting something badly enough counts? God.

Better take Rogers out of the picture. What if Tony hadn't been his father's son? But then he wouldn't have been his mother's son either and that's not a tradeoff he would ever be willing to make if presented with a choice. Okay, so let's just say that he got to keep his mom while this guy Howard took a hike. He's pretty sure he would have been happier that way. For starters, he wouldn't have been heir to Stark Industries. He wouldn't have met Pepper, but let's not kid ourselves here, she would have been better off that way.

No CEO shoes to fill, no reason to ride the fun-vee. Those young soldiers would be alive. Maybe Yinsen, too. Rhodey would have never gotten involved in all of this if there had never been a Mark I. And Tony, well, he could have easily ended up doing something else. He would have kept his smarts, which obviously came from his mother's side, so instead of lacking options, there would have been a wealth of paths spread before him as far as the eye could see. He could have been anything he wanted, including being happy. He could have led a simpler, yet content life.

At most, he would have witnessed the Battle of New York away from the epicenter. That's it. That would have been the single most traumatic thing to ever happen to him. In fact, he can picture himself as a regular passer-by with absurd clarity, just standing frozen in one spot and seeing all the mayhem unfolding around him while thinking, _Holy fuck, I really need to leave town._

And he could have left. Nothing would have stopped him. No duty, no obligation. Nothing at all, which raises the question, though. Who else would have flown that nuke away from the city? 

That's the thing, isn't it? Who else is so necessary yet so expendable as he is? Maybe that's the only role he gets to fill in this universe. His life in exchange for the life of many others. It sounds like a good deal. There's no way around it, no way to split the difference. He's George Bailey stuck in that sad little town for the sake of everyone else.

What a wonderful life.

 

 

When he drops by one of the training grounds, Steve almost feels like he has just walked into the middle of a play. He takes a seat on the bleachers without attracting attention to himself, just observing in silence as Spider-Man casts a mesh of webbing over Wanda. She lets it come inches away from her face before she makes it crumple into a ball, then throws it back at once. Spider-Man dodges it and climbs up the farthest wall, waiting. Only when Vision signals for a timeout do they pull back, their choreography broken.

"Queens," Steve says by way of greeting.

"Brooklyn," the kid breathes, and then, after taking off his mask, "I mean, Captain. Captain America. I'm actually Peter."

He looks as young as he sounds, eyes bright and the whole of him buzzing with energy. "That was good, Peter," Steve says with a smile, and he thinks of the potential Tony must have seen in the boy to handpick him like this.

"Well, thanks. I did what I could. She's tough," Peter says, which earns a tiny smirk from Wanda as she passes on her way to join Vision a little further away.

"She most assuredly is," Steve says, watching how Peter is still keeping his mask close to his chest even as he fiddles with it, following the pattern that FRIDAY must have rendered before Tony gave it the green light. "I have one of those, too."

 _Still you, if you ask me. It draws inspiration from the earlier designs, clearly, but it's less in-your-face about it. And it's been drastically improved where it matters,_ Tony had said, showing him a prototype before he went on to list all the upgrades he would add to the uniform. 

Steve had listened to him in silence. One of the things he enjoyed the most was when people from all walks of life discussed their passions, and Tony wasn't the exception. Steve loved to hear him talk at length about his creations, and the way his eyes lit up as he did so, and how the tension that always followed him around transformed into zest, pure and simple.

 _It's kinda stylish. I'll give you that,_ Steve had said, not entirely serious, because back then he wouldn't have needed to explain that all the things Tony did for him meant much more than he let on.

 _What else did you expect from me, Cap?_ Tony had said before he gave Steve his best smile, the kind that made people fall all over themselves to get his attention. _I'm all about style._

"Oh," Peter says, looking down at his hands and then at Steve. "Oh yeah, only yours is blue. And different. This is actually the first time I see you without your cowl. From up close, I mean. And this, um," he adds, holding out his mask, "I just like to make sure I have it with me at all times. My aunt doesn't know about this. She can never know. _Ever._ " He plops down after that, putting his head in his hands as if the sole idea was too much to bear.

"She would worry about you, understandably," Steve says.

"Worry? She would flip! She would completely freak out," Peter says, shaking his head, and although it doesn't seem like a laughing matter, Steve can't help smiling. He remembers how his mother used to patch him up after a fist fight, tweezers and gauze and cotton swabs laid on the table of their cramped little kitchen. Granted, the others were the ones who did most of the fighting and threw most of the punches, not him. _You should've seen the other guy,_ he would say without fail, but you could see the truth in the fresh bruises coloring his face. Still, he tried as best he could, standing firm until the very end. That was the most important thing of all, not giving up, just as she had taught him.

Fights usually brought him memories of that time. It didn't matter that he was stronger now, that he was Captain America, that he was part of the Avengers. All he remembered was that time, simple and mundane as it had been, yet entirely his. But Siberia had been different. Even now, all he can see is Tony's face caked in blood and his eyes going wide, and the arc reactor shattering as if it were made out of glass.

"Are you still at odds with each other?" Peter says all of a sudden. "You know, Mr. Stark and you."

"It's . . . complicated," Steve manages to say, which would sound like a cop-out if only it wasn't true.

"Yeah, I can see that," Peter says, crossing his arms. "It was all pretty unreal, to be honest. I remember watching all of you fighting together back then. Midtown was left _in ruins._ Of course, not because of you. You saved the day. What I mean to say is, that image stays with you. You guys as a team. And then comes Germany, and _nothing_ makes sense anymore. Well, I did get what was going on, but it didn't feel _right._ "

"It didn't," Steve rasps. He felt it in his bones the moment he stood opposite Tony, the moment he told him he had torn the Avengers apart by signing the Accords. Wasn't he supposed to be the one who never gave up? Why did he resign himself to the idea that this is how things were going to be, then? If their collision seemed inevitable, it was only because he had made it so. He should have told Tony everything. He should have tried to stop it all before it was too late. He should have listened to the part of him that was screaming, even as he raised his shield, ready to strike, that fighting Tony would never feel right.

"Mr. Stark seemed . . . not happy after the whole thing," Peter says, and Wanda eyes Steve briefly before she resumes talking with Vision. "He was super busy every time I saw him, but it was like something was off. I don't know him all that well, of course, but he didn't look like himself. Don't tell him that I told you."

Steve nods at that. Wanda and Vision are already walking towards the center of the field, so Peter puts on his mask and stands up.

"Well, it was nice talking to you, Cap. And I hope things get better between you. It's just so _weird_ otherwise!" Peter says, swinging on his way to join the others. Before long, he's firing pellets made out of webbing while Wanda makes each one of them swirl away from her and Vision lets them pass through him.

At some point, Tony appears on the doorway. He walks towards where Steve is without looking at him, not even once, and then settles two steps above and three seats to the left. Steve can't see him unless he turns, which he knows is entirely on purpose, a little childish of Tony, and mildly upsetting, but just knowing that he's there makes his chest feel less tight.

"Tony," Steve says, not expecting an answer.

Sure enough, there's no reply for a while, but then Tony says, "Natasha told me you've got mail."

"We did."

"You don't have a place in D.C. anymore, do you."

"No."

" _Bad timing, Rogers,_ " Tony says, and Steve is probably imagining things, but there's something in his voice that reminds him of how Tony used to be around him, knowing little smirks and digs that were more playful than anything else. "FRIDAY made reservations. You talked with the lawyers?"

"Yes," Steve says, and before he can say anything else, Tony holds up a hand.

"Stop right there, I don't want to know. Let it be a surprise when you end up saying whatever the hell you want anyway."

Steve breathes in, thinking of how to phrase the next question in the most inoffensive way possible. "Are you coming too?"

"Why, am I not allowed to?" Tony asks, but then he relaxes his frown somewhat. "I wish I didn't have to. But I spent a great deal of time waxing poetic about the team this and the team that to anyone who would listen. It would be terribly inconsistent of me if I didn't tag along while you're fed to the lions.

"I mean, I could at least _watch,_ " he adds with a small curve of his lips, which is something that not even Tony himself believes, but Steve doesn't call him out on that. He gets it, how necessary it is for Tony to make it look like he doesn't care, even if he cares deeply. He hides behind a mask of indifference precisely because he cares too much, because he's been hurt again and again, and Steve's worst mistake—his biggest regret—is to have played a part in that.

"Thank you."

Tony bristles. "I'm not doing it for—"

"For me, I know. Thank you nonetheless," he says. The edges soften, and Steve looks away so that Tony doesn’t feel like he's letting his guard down in front of someone he doesn't trust completely, not anymore.

Tony stands up to leave after that, his back turned towards him when he says, "At the very least try not to fuck up things worse than they already are, Steve. You know, for a change." Tony doesn't wince, feeling caught; he doesn't give the slightest indication that his every word wasn't chosen carefully, and Steve knows he's grasping at straws here, but how could he not? It's the second time Tony says his name.

 

 

He's been in and out of so many hotel suites around the world that being away from home—wherever that is nowadays—feels like a blip on the radar, nothing special. Even before he stepped up to take the reins of Stark Industries and got used to the rhythm that entailed, there had been family vacations if his dad felt magnanimous, which wasn't very often, and if pops was busy working on some secret project or away on a business trip, his mom used to take him on sojourns across the pond. She usually let him sleep in when it was just the two of them on holiday, and Tony would wake up on his own and go into the terrace so they could have breakfast al fresco, milk with only a dash of coffee, seeing as how he was too young for espresso, fresh bread rolls, and local delicacies. All in all, a delight.

It's not so much the flavor that has stayed with him this long, but the feelings surrounding the experience. They have blended into one another, so instead of apricot jam he remembers tasting freedom on the tip of his tongue, and instead of a trickle of warm milk, he remembers joy tickling his throat. His current breakfast, though tastefully served, can't even begin to compare. Those days had been his happiest, and seen through the lens of nostalgia, even slices of slightly spoiled fruit would have outdone whatever he had in front of him.

He takes a sip of his coffee to hold back a sigh and looks through the window. The streets below are mostly dark and empty, and Tony wishes he could stand under the sun once more, to travel the same roads he and his mother walked along all those summers ago, her hand gently holding his. But even if he hopped on his jet and left everything behind him, he wouldn't be able to bring back the past. He wouldn't be able to escape anything. The same things that chase him here would chase him there, and that's without even considering the biggest nightmare of them all. If he said screw it all and stood on the sidelines, the end of the world would still catch up with him no matter where he went.

Once his cup is empty, he makes his way to the meeting room that FRIDAY booked in addition to the suites, and although he expects to find it empty this early in the morning, it's not. Wanda is pouring through the notes she was handed by Legal while she twiddles with a paper clip, twisting it and untwisting it all over again. "Fell out of bed?" Tony asks, taking a seat at the other end of the table. He's prepared to see her scowl, but when she looks up to meet his eyes, all she seems is nervous. Oh. _Oh boy._

He's been through this kind of thing so many times and she has not, so it feels like he should say something. Anything, really, instead of doing the first thing that comes to his mind, which is leaving the way he came before calling Vision, who wouldn't be sleeping back in New York anyway. It's not a bad idea. It's actually quite tempting, but he might as well try to say something first and run later.

Let's see, the lawyers have covered the legal aspects, evidently, and he knows that Natasha gave her a few pointers before the trip. He's supposed to do what, give her a pep talk of sorts? That kind of thing usually falls on Rogers, so he must have taken care of that before they even left the compound, which means, in turn, that whatever Tony ends up saying will be something she heard already, except in that grandiose, old-fashioned, this-is-something-my-grandma-would-say kind of talk that Rogers loves so much. 

Still. He did say he would try, didn't he? And he loves challenges, doesn't he? _Alright, here we go._ Tony breathes in, opens his mouth, and the first thing that comes out is, "I should have kept you on the loop."

Her brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

Well, it's out there. From then on it's all about keeping the ball rolling, right? "About staying put in the compound. I had many things on my plate back then, but I still should have made time to level with you about the reasons I had to do that. That it wasn't because we thought you were a menace, but because the menace was outside and we wanted to keep you safe. It probably wouldn't have changed anything, but at least it wouldn't have caught you unawares, which I assume it did."

Wanda looks miffed now, which seems like progress. "Yes, it _did._ "

"And Vision wouldn't have been in the position of having to stop you. Who knows, maybe we wouldn't have had to deal with that frankly enormous hole you left behind as a parting gift. Now, you have to admit you went a little overboard with it, what with almost sending him all the way to China."

The corners of her lips twitch then, and although it's gone in a matter of seconds, he's going to count that as a victory. "I might have, yes."

"Okay, listen," Tony says, moving seats so that he can get his point across better. "Natasha must have warned you that these people aren't going to be on your side from the get go. Obviously. They'll be difficult. They might even act like complete, unredeemable assholes under a veneer of civility. But remember, you've been through hell and survived. They can't break you. And if they want to make you believe it's all your fault? Don't believe them for a single second.

"Instead, you stand there and very politely bring to their attention that you were in Lagos stopping mercenaries from getting their hands on a biological weapom. You don't brag, you don't smirk, you don't do anything that could be construed as disrespectful to the committee, but more importantly, to the victims. If you've seen any of my hearings, yeah, don't do any of that. But on the inside? Be aware that you were stopping a bomb that had gone off and could have easily taken lives at ground level. Do you think any of us could have done that? Nope. So feel confident in the fact that you were out there doing good. Are we clear?"

"Yes," Wanda whispers.

"What's that? I didn't hear you."

"Yes," she says, her jaw set hard.

"Good," Tony says with a smile, and not to brag, but that came out pretty great. He almost wishes FRIDAY had recorded the whole thing.

After a while, she says, "Tony."

"Yeah?"

She's looking away now, twisting the paper clip in her palm using nothing but threadlike currents of energy. It used to creep the hell out of Tony, but it no longer has that effect on him, not anymore. "You do know that what you saw wasn't the future, right? That's not an ability I have."

Tony blinks. "Are we really talking about this? I thought we had agreed to put it behind us and not talk about it ever because it was awkward as hell. Be honest, it's all Vision's fault. You're picking up his lack of social cues."

"We're talking about it because you're _wrong,_ " Wanda says, and before Tony can protest, she adds, "The threat may be real, but you're not a destroyer of worlds. You don't have that kind of power, so stop thinking so highly of yourself."

"You have a very particular way of being kind to others," Tony says, looking askance at her.

"I could say the same about you," she says.

"Fair enough."

They stay in silence after that, mulling over what the other just said. Or at least Tony assumes that's the case; he can't read minds like her. If he could, he would try to find out whether she believes in what she's saying or whether there's a dark corner inside of her that flares with hate every time she sees him, a part of her that hasn't let go yet and still blames him in the same way that he still blames Barnes.

Tony tries, really. He tries so hard. But there are days when it all but consumes him, the burning pain, the white-hot anger. Is he ever going to stomach sitting like this, making nice with the man who murdered his parents? Will he ever find it in him to tell Barnes that everything that happened was through no fault of his own? Is the day _ever_ going to come when Tony is able to look at his reflection and tell himself the same thing?

He would like to believe her so badly, but he can't. He was shown. He's sure of it. The threat is more than just a possibility, it's coming. And if he isn't able to stop it, what difference does it make if he's the one to pull the trigger or not? The outcome would be the same. Is that so hard to understand? The best thing he can do is to dismiss her words as a mere exchange of pleasantries. Just nice things that don't cost anything to say, such as _Together, like your father and I_ and _I'll miss you, Tony._

Even then, a part of him must have fallen for it, because something inside him is beginning to ease off, which is bad news all around. He can't let that happen. Pain is good, it keeps you on your toes, it screams, _Here's your air horn warning, fucking pay attention._ If he doesn't feel pain, how else is he supposed to know when something's wrong? That's how bodies work. That's how a guilty conscience works too, through pain. That's why he must remember Steve asking him why he didn't do more. He must remember the agony that was watching him die along with everybody else. He can't forget any of that unless he wants to grow complacent, which is the one thing he can't afford.

"You still don't believe me, do you?" 

Coming from her, it seems more than just wild guessing, and whether that's true or not, it still unsettles him and makes him react in the only way he knows how. "Is the look on my face giving me away or are you using a cheat sheet? Should I be wearing a tin foil hat?" Tony says with a smirk.

"I'm serious." There's something urgent about the way she says it, which reminds him of Fury playing hide and seek inside that barn, trying to convince Tony that he didn't have the potential both of them knew he had. He had it him to destroy things even if he meant to do the opposite. Wasn't it obvious? Hadn't anyone taken a look at his track record, for crying out loud? 

"You're _always_ serious."

"And you're wrong. Let that sink in, Tony. You always think you know better, but you don't."

"I wish you were right," he says in a whisper.

"I am," she says, looking at him in the eye. "You're not the monster Pietro and I made you out to be. And maybe I'm not one—"

"Confidence, Wanda," he says, clearing his throat to keep his voice even. " _Come on,_ we just talked about this."

"And I'm not one either," she says at last, and this time her lips curve in something that can actually pass for a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He did everything he could, but it's out of his hands now. The only thing left is to wait and see how things play out, whether necessity is greater than fear, whether all the good they did for the world weighs more than the sum of their fuck-ups._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this one took a while. Many thanks to my long-suffering friend Anita for her input and her support.
> 
> Warning: There's a scene that deals with PTSD, which will carry on to the next chapter.

Everybody comes together for the dress rehearsal, even if it feels like they're more of a support group than an ensemble. There are take-out leftovers as well as stacks of papers strewn across the conference table, and jokes peppered here and there to dispel the tension as they read from their testimonies. Steve remains silent and eyes the crossed out notes piling on the margins of his own statement, irregular strokes that stand in contrast to the typography's uniform lines.

He wouldn't go as far as saying that each paragraph had been a tug of war between the legal team and him, but it's true that he wasn't the most accommodating either, at least not in the beginning. His intention had been to shoulder most, if not all of the blame, which made him raise objections at every turn, all the while the lawyers exchanged pained glances among themselves before they told him no. 

_It doesn't work like that, Mr. Rogers. Even if we didn't have clear instructions to prevent you from becoming a scapegoat, this sort of . . ._ one of the lawyers had said, gesturing at the draft Steve had handed him.

 _Sacrifice play,_ another one of them supplied. _No such thing on my watch, Mr. Stark said._

_Yes, it would end up being counterproductive for everyone involved. You should be perceived as a team that was working with the public interest in mind, which you effectively were._

_There was a breach of communication between you and the team led by Mr. Stark, clearly, but it would help no one's case if you gave them cause, no matter how minimal, for framing you as grossly irresponsible and the rest of your team as gullible. Even if you didn't reach your goal, yours was a coordinated effort to prevent an incident of this caliber,_ a third lawyer said, tapping her pen against a set of archive photos featuring the other Winter Soldiers, now dead. _Wouldn't you agree that suggesting otherwise would be a misinterpretation of the truth?_

His feelings matter very little in light of that. All he can think about is the look on everybody's faces the moment he got them out the Raft, and the happiness on their voices when they told their families they were coming back home at last; he remembers Vision's smile upon seeing Wanda, his fingers wrapping gently around her shoulders, and Tony's relief after he learned that most of them were willing to sign the Accords. There's no way Steve can jeopardize any of that. And so he draws straight lines upon his own handwriting, striking out yet again the observations he made at his most feisty until they are hard to read. If playing along makes things easier for everybody, then he'll do it. He'll grit his teeth if needed, but he'll go through with it.

"Just give it to me straight," Scott says all of a sudden. "I'm screwed, aren't I? At risk of sounding like a broken record, the Raft wasn't my first time in jail. Congress will certainly look _kindly_ on that. I'm just—I'm way out of my league."

"Don't be such a drama queen, Lang," Tony says, breezing into the meeting room in long strides. Against the sparse decor, all of him seems vibrant, flowing lines and dynamic shapes, and Steve forces himself to set his pen down and look away even if he could draw him from memory. 

Scott perks up instead of taking it as an insult. "You think I actually stand a chance?"

"Why not. I've seen far more hopeless affairs working out," Tony says without looking up from his phone, and although it sounds like a snub, his words still manage to lighten things up. Well-meaning reassurances can only go so far before they strike you as nothing but wishful thinking, and Steve appreciates this about Tony, how he doesn't sugarcoat the truth, how grounded he's in reality. He's not one to dilly-dally hoping everything will magically get better. He makes things happen, he never stops looking for a way out. He makes it all seem easier, possible. Does Tony even know that? How much the team needs him, his ingenuity, his courage, his heart.

"That's good to know," Scott says with a chuckle, but he actually means it. His smile remains in place, for one, making him look more at ease.

"Yeah, yeah," Tony says, pulling a chair against the farthest wall. "Pretend I'm not here."

"Yeah, take it easy, Tic-Tac. We're all in this together," Sam says, looking in Tony's direction. Tony misses it, but he sticks around for long enough that Steve suspects their company isn't unwelcome, that he needs the background noise of their chatter to focus.

Tony didn't always spend time alone in his workshop, back in the day. Sometimes he would claim a corner of the common area for himself and work in plain sight, a tablet set on his lap and the glow of each hologram lighting up his features. 

They had grown used to that, to have him there but not quite present, his mind elsewhere, and from time to time Steve would take a page from Tony's book and sit with a notepad and a pencil in hand. He enjoyed making quick sketches of each one of the Avengers, and Tony, engrossed in his work and barely moving, made the best model. His drawings of him used to have the most detail, stronger lines and shades beyond the grayscale of his pencil set.

 _Have you shown him?_ Natasha asked once, sneaking up behind Steve and prompting him to close his notepad and his watercolor kit as though he had been caught red-handed.

 _No,_ Steve said then.

And now it's too late.

 

 

In a way, it feels like they're playing a game. There's an element of risk, odds against and odds in favor, and even some good old-fashioned competition, Us vs. Them, the whole nine yards. In fact, if Tony were in the dock this time, he could at least be enjoying the rush in addition to the performative aspect of it, slipping quips with a straight face every time one of the committee's members said something mind-bogglingly inaccurate and irrelevant to the matter at hand. It wouldn't hit the right note, perhaps, but there are situations that almost beg for some measure of irreverence, however small. Like now, for instance, several hours into Clint's hearing, and by all appearances, with many hours left until the day's end.

But regardless of the committee's suitability, at least it's not the witch-hunt they had expected going in, which means that all their fieldwork paid off somehow, from T'Challa's adept handling of the soft power at his disposal to Natasha's well-versed mining of vulnerabilities to exploit. Tony himself had played his cards long ago, off the record talks and informal agreements, political maneuvering at its finest or at its lowest, depending on who does the asking. This was the currency that made the world go round, and although all of it made him feel sick sometimes, at least pushing Ross' buttons had truly been a delight.

_Is it me or the press would have a field day with all the gritty details surrounding the Raft? They must be tired of reporting on the primaries this, the primaries that, so I, for one, think they would feel grateful for having the chance to spice things up. And you know who else would find this fascinating? The taxpayers! Gosh, I just wonder what they would think about this sad, empty white elephant sailing the seas at their expense. And talking about sailing, can we say for sure that the Raft never crossed the territorial waters of our trade partners, not even once? Because I happen to have some evidence that suggests the opposite._

He did everything he could, but it's out of his hands now. The only thing left is to wait and see how things play out, whether necessity is greater than fear, whether all the good they did for the world weighs more than the sum of their fuck-ups. And sure, no one believes in second chances more than him, but he also believes in accepting responsibility for their mistakes, and not just because despite their abilities, they're human, fallible, and not exempt from being taken to task. He believes in accountability, because the Avengers owe it to the public to make them feel safe instead of helpless. Why else do they fight, if not for that?

Steve looks up from the opposite end of the row, and for an instant, they exchange glances without meaning to. It used to feel familiar before, easy. To have Steve look at him used to make Tony feel as if they were in this together for better or for worse, as if their differences—and God, they were so different—complemented each other and made the team stronger instead of being its weakest link.

If there's still some of that left, he has no way to tell. Tony is the first to look away, the first to put up walls around himself, the first to keep his distance. Fool me once, shame on you, and Tony can't afford to get fooled twice. Contrary to popular belief, he's not a stranger to the concept of self-preservation, and although these last few years have been all about theory rather than practice, he's a fast learner. He'll get there. He _ought_ to get there for his own good. Just give him a little time.

 

 

Steve tugs at his tie once more, even if the knot has already come undone. It's been a long day and his fingers simply move out of their own accord at this point, trying to ease the pressure, the weight he carries on his shoulders ever since he became an idea rather than just a man. He feels confined within narrow walls, as though he had to make himself smaller to fit in.

He wants to believe that these aren't his thoughts. It's the city's atmosphere that he finds oppressive, or rather, the image of it that he has painted in his mind. If he peers through the window and takes in the view in a sweeping glance, a part of him will still be expecting to meet Bucky in full Winter Soldier regalia, his aim mercilessly exact, his memories gone. It's an invasive feeling. It's like thinking of ice and having everything come back to him at once, not just the Arctic closing in before his eyes, but also the mix of rust, concrete, and snow, colorless against the deep red of Tony's armor, of Tony's blood.

His phone rings, startling him. It's the only light coming from the room, the only sound, and for a brief moment he resents the entirely modern necessity of having to be accounted for at all times. Still, he picks it up and sits on the floor, his back pressed against the foot of the bed. "Everything fine?" Steve asks after glancing at the screen, and when his hand reaches for his collar yet again, he yanks his tie and tosses it behind him.

"I should be asking you that," Natasha says, and he pictures her looking for cues, taking note of each pause and reading between the lines, all the while she does a myriad of other things at once.

"You must've seen it on TV," he says, breathing out through his nose.

"I did, but I was hoping for a firsthand account."

"Then you should talk with Clint," he says, well aware that she must have dealt with foes far more cooperative than this.

"You sure are wordy today, Steve. How's Tony?" Natasha fires next, and he should probably tell her that he's too tired to do this right now, but in the end he doesn't. The only other option available is to lie in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling and mind hard at work listing all the times he could have told Tony the truth and _didn't,_ because he was a fool who didn't know how good he had it going.

"Do you really think that's something I can ask him?" He's too exhausted to keep his guard up at all times, so he actually sighs this time. It still doesn't do anything to ease the heaviness in his chest.

"He thinks it could have been worse, so that makes three of us, if you count Clint."

"It could've been better," he says instead. "If things had been different, we wouldn't be here in the first place."

"I didn't take you for a pessimist," she says, and he remembers plastering a smile on his face while he spoke of the wonders of war bonds, the same speech in every city, the same particular brand of misery every time he went on stage.

"You were wrong in your assessment. That's two strikes," he says, and then, "I'm sorry, Natasha. I'm not good company tonight."

"No progress, huh?" Her voice is soft this time, careful, and the only thing he can think about is the way Tony looked at him earlier, a ghost of days past buried under layers of hurt.

"This is our new normal," he says, and it sounds impassive, mechanical, like a line he has rehearsed time and time again until he finally managed to learn it by heart. There are times when he thinks that rebuilding what they had isn't impossible, and then there are times, just like now, when he's pretty sure that he's only fooling himself. "I gotta go. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Natasha sighs and says, "Get some rest, Steve."

Instead of doing that, he gets to his feet. The city is outlined by bright pinpoints of light, but he can't help finding it cold, barren, devoid of color. It's an aftertaste he can't quite shake off even now, heart speeding up, throat growing tighter. Disgust, anger, mistrust. He'll do what needs to be done for the sake of the team, he'll play this game, but he can't let go of it even now, the secrets wrapped into secrets, the duplicity, the pervading sense that there's always someone in the shadows taking them for fools, thinking them puppets. All of it reminds him of HYDRA growing as a pulsing malignance within SHIELD, of Bucky being used like a weapon against his will.

The windowpane throws his reflection back at him, his hands closed into fists, his jaw set tight, and a thought comes to him, hard, unrelenting, final. Just as he can't let go of this, Tony won't let go either, will he? He'll look at Steve and remember that he left him behind, that he used the shield Howard made to destroy the only thing left to protect him, that he kept this from him. They're impossible to untangle now, the truth about that night in December and all the memories he and Tony made together. He's always going to be a reminder of the death of his parents at the Winter Soldier's hands.

 

 

Another day, another hearing. Rinse and repeat. At first it was like watching a play starring your kids and hoping against hope that they don't forget their lines, but now Tony's bored out of his mind, and he's not the only one. People yawn from time to time, a handful of others nod off . . . It's not always sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll, it's not even glamorous, it can't always be Tony setting off in a blaze of glory after saying he successfully privatized world peace.

Things being largely boring is excellent news for them, though. The committee's questioning isn't so relentless that they can't say their piece and stay afloat, sometimes with success, and Tony would almost say he's proud, seeing as how they kind of deserve it. Not only did Barton achieve the feat of looking sensible, he also kept his trap shut instead of regaling everybody with his gratuitous commentary. Lang kept his cool throughout, grounded and levelheaded even as they reminded him of his criminal record; Wanda was all restraint and dignity, and a regret so palpable that it brought silence over the chamber. 

As for Sam, his turn on the stage isn't over, but it's shaping out to be more of the same, a thorough enumeration of facts and diligent awareness of where they went wrong. Coupled with their agreement on oversight and their expressed intention of signing the Accords, there's probably nothing else the committee can realistically ask of them.

The school play goes on, even if by this point it feels like routine question after routine question, which means either one of two things—their script is sorely lacking or they're actually saving their energies for the showdown against Steve Rogers, America's erstwhile favorite son. 

If Steve ignores the lawyers' advice and digs himself into a hole, he can't say they didn't warn him. He's a grown-ass man and there's nothing Tony can do to stop him, not really. Case in point, see how well that turned out last time. It's not up to Tony, and knowing this should be enough to quell the knot in his stomach as it works its way up and reaches his throat, but it isn't. 

His phone buzzes against his side, a tingle muffled by the lining of his jacket, and he welcomes the distraction right until he reads the message. Checking a few words every other line is usually all he needs to get the gist of it, but this time it's different. He reads it again, his pulse on the rise, and everything must be written on his face because he can feel it, Steve only a few seats away, his eyes on him.

Tony looks at him and shakes his head once. The world isn't in danger or anything like it. He begins to stand up, and for a moment it feels like Steve will follow him—he's on the edge of his seat, leaning forward, his eyes still on Tony.

He did the same after they found out about Coulson, after they had to sit through Fury's little motivational speech. They were fresh from their first attempt at teamwork, a successful attempt, in fact, but also fresh from taking each other down a notch, and Steve still went looking for him. But he won't follow Tony this time around because now he knows better, doesn't he?

Just as expected, Steve falls back against his seat, letting him go, and the awareness becomes pressure around Tony's chest. Or maybe it's the news, after all. He doesn't know, he's out of there, desperately in need of somewhere to hole himself up.

The place turns out to be so ridiculous, he can't help laughing. He's alone, hiding behind the door of a bathroom stall in fucking Capitol Hill of all places, and he's laughing his head off. He waits until his body stops shaking with laughter, wipes the tears pooling on the corner of his eyes, and skims through the message again.

" _Binary Augmented Retro Framing._ They didn't change the name, God," Tony whispers, and it almost sets him off again. He bites his lower lip, lets the tickle in his throat die a quick death, and presses on. _Subject responding favorably under controlled conditions. Further development contingent on future trials. Early results lead to conclude that deprogramming is feasible._

Tony waits for the onslaught of emotions, but all he draws is a blank. There's nothing for a good while, no pain, no anger, no firestorm reducing everything to ashes. For once, the first image that comes to him when he thinks of Barnes isn't from twenty-odd years ago, but from far earlier. Newsreels that his dad let him watch only so that he could instill in him from a young age how great Captain America was. 

If he closes his eyes, he can still see white lettering over grainy black, terribly cheesy music, Victory Day seen through the eyes of the common people, impromptu tributes to the fallen.

James Buchanan Barnes, the first Howling Commando to give his life in the name of his country.

Bucky Barnes, lying on the ground, defeated, and still trying to reach out and hold Tony back.

Tony projects himself into the future. It's what he does. And he gave away one of his most precious toys before he was ready to share it, hoping that one day his feelings matched his good deed. That day hasn't arrived yet. He's been trying so hard to get there, oh God, he's been trying to fake it until he makes it, and he always falls spectacularly short.

But now he can take a look at his hands and see them less tainted. He can begin to believe that not all of his creations are means of destruction, that he has it in him to be a force for good instead of bringing nothing but ruin. His mom sure thought so, and maybe, just maybe, he can find a way to live up to that.

If letting go is in the cards, only time will tell. And until that day comes, BARF will be out there in the world, doing good in his stead.

 

 

"Big day's here. Nervous?" Sam asks him with a smile, prompting Steve to do likewise even if his heart isn't really in it.

"Relax, Cap. It's not as bad as it looks," Clint says, picking up on his unease, though not on the reason behind it. The hearing itself isn't what worries Steve the most, but how it might affect the others, including Tony. Particularly him, perhaps.

He's in all of his thoughts as of late, and how couldn't he be? Steve looks back and all he sees is how hard Tony tried to reach out to him until the very end, how he risked everything to help him out, how he left no stone unturned to get everybody back. The least Steve can do—probably the only thing he can do for Tony right now—is not to make things harder for him. He already failed him once. He doesn't intend to do it again.

"I bet you'll do much better than I did. I mean, I barely remember what happened." There's a wide-eyed look on Scott's face as he says that, palms pressed against his cheeks. "You guys said I didn't suck?"

"You didn't. I'd even dare say you were quite alright," Sam says, giving him the kind of slow nod he saved for particular achievements.

"Really?" Scott says, trying to hide a smile. "Well, thanks. I appreciate that."

Wanda appears on the doorway then, her arms crossed across her chest. "Tony wants to know what's taking all of you so long," she says, and that sends them scrambling to finish their coffee in one go. Steve gathers his notes and breathes in, one hand flat against his stomach for the briefest of moments. He knows Tony is doing this because he feels responsible for them and not because he wants to. He knows Tony would prefer to be anywhere else. Steve knows this isn't about him in any way, but he's still awfully glad that Tony is there.

"Coming," Clint says. "Cap wouldn't miss this for the world."

There are no delays after that, or almost, anyway, because a few reporters ambush him the moment they see him step outside of the hotel, eager to get some off-the cuff remark out of him. "I have nothing to add at the moment," Steve says as he pushes his way towards the cars lined up on the street, waiting for them.

"Go ahead," Sam says, and Steve makes for the car closest to him, opens the door, and finds Tony already sitting there, a tablet on his hands.

"Tony," Steve says, his hand still on the handle.

Tony gets one look at the situation unfolding behind him and says, "Well, don't just stand there. Get in."

Steve knows there are flashes going off and he can still hear the reporters asking him whether he's going to sign the Accords or not, but he ignores all of that for a moment. "I can check if any of the other cars—"

" _Come on,_ Rogers. We'll be late. Get in the car already."

The cars start rolling through the streets not long afterwards, Tony returns to his work, and Steve looks out the window. The sky is mostly clear today, with a few clouds stretching across the blue canvas like cotton candy, and it wasn't all bad, was it? He has a knack for remembering the bad things first, but he also made friends with Sam here, he began to trust more in Natasha, Bucky started to remember him. He even tried to put himself out there and ask his _neighbor_ for coffee, even if it didn't pan out. 

It wasn't all bad, which is funny coming from him. Just a little while ago he thought the opposite, and the only thing that has changed since then, the only reason why he has changed his tune at all is—

 _You make it all different,_ Steve thinks, looking at Tony out of the corner of his eye. _How do you even manage to do that?_ With him at his side everything takes on a different meaning. Even in his dreams, he shines the brightest, red and golden warmth in a world whose color has faded with the pass of time. There's no one who embodies his connection to the present better than Tony does, and that's why being at odds with him will always knock Steve off balance, throwing in sharp relief the fact that the future isn't a place where he rightfully belongs.

"Do I have something on my face?" Tony asks without looking at him.

Steve faces away so that he doesn't see him smile. "No."

He wishes he could ask Tony what made him so upset yesterday, but even if saying anything was a good idea, he wouldn't know what to say not to put Tony on the defensive. All he can do is accept what he's given without expecting more. He will take these quiet moments and drink them in as much as he can, and if something comes out of it, if anything at all is possible, then he'll be thankful for it.

When the car stops in front of the building, Tony is the first to get out. The press is there, as well as demonstrators in favor and against, and although Steve should be used to all of that by now, it still takes him a second to steel himself. 

"Don't fall behind, old man," Tony says, and Steve doesn't say anything, he only lets the corners of his mouth curl up just barely, and follows in his steps.

 

 

Just as they expected, Bucky is the common denominator of a long list of questions that have the bombing of the Vienna International Center as a starting point. Steve takes notes with a loose grip on his pen, just light, unbroken movement instead of engraving each word into the paper. It takes very little to invite anger and he needs a clear head.

"Let us revisit the moment where you helped James Buchanan Barnes to escape. A wanted criminal, may I add."

"Evidence proved that he wasn't responsible for what happened in Vienna. And before you ask, I do believe that a person's innocence is worth defending—"

"Barnes has been linked to _numerous_ assassinations," one of the congressmen says, and Steve remembers Howard flying Peggy and him through enemy airspace, and then Tony's mother, her fingers lingering on his face.

"If _Helmut Zemo_ hadn't impersonated Dr. Broussard, I have no doubt that the examination would have confirmed what we know, that the criminal organization known as HYDRA controlled James Barnes' mind." Even if Steve had signed then, Zemo would have still made the Winter Soldier go on the loose. Nothing would have changed at first, but maybe the outcome would have been different. And suddenly all he can think about is how Tony wanted to keep Bucky out of jail because he knew what he meant to Steve.

"And you're sure about this because you have _expertise_ in the matter," the congressman says with a sardonic smile.

"I just _know_ what HYDRA is capable of," Steve says before he realizes he's about to snap the pen in half.

They go in circles after that, debating on whether mind control is an acceptable theory. They seek clarification on the incidents surrounding his first encounter with Bucky as the Winter Soldier, and then about the fall of SHIELD. It goes well into the day before they even mention Leipzig, at which point they announce the first break.

"We could go to that Thai restaurant we spotted on the way," Sam suggests, and the others agree at once.

Steve looks at Tony's seat, now empty, and he wonders if all of it was simply too much for him to stomach. 

"He was here until a moment ago," Wanda says, and upon seeing the look of surprise on Steve's face, she shrugs. "You're just not very subtle. I didn't even have to guess."

 

 

They run into each other after the lunch break. It would be stupid to pretend he didn't see the lot of them, so Tony just keeps walking until he more or less joins the group at the fringe. They kind of perk up when they see him, which is something he can't wrap his head around just yet. In return, he gives them a lopsided grimace that could pass for a smile if you squint.

"We had Thai food," Sam says out of nowhere. "You?"

"Some kind of fancy pizza," Tony replies before he can begin to think about _this,_ whatever it is. "I wouldn't really recommend it."

"You should come with us next time. The more the merrier," Lang says, and Tony breathes in relief because he can finally understand what's going on.

"Look, if it's the check that you want me to pick, you just have to—"

"Our treat," Clint says, giving him some kind of constipated look that he apparently gets whenever he means to say he's sorry. Laura Barton lucked out with him, that poor woman.

"Okay, knock it off. All of you are weirding the hell out of me."

"Deal with it," Wanda says with a little smile as she walks past him, which is exactly what Tony _doesn't_ plan to do. He won't deal with _anything,_ thank you very much. If there's something he hates with a particular kind of passion, it's to get caught off-guard.

"This is highly abnormal," he says to no one in particular.

"Shouldn't it always be like this?" Steve says. The others have left them behind in what seems to be a calculated, if painfully obvious move. They suck at subtlety. Tony almost feels sorry for them. 

In the end, he rolls with it. He survived a car ride with the man, so he can certainly handle something like this. "It doesn't matter, it's still weird as hell."

They walk in silence after that, and although Steve seems to match his pace, it's only make-believe. Tony overlooked it at first. It was easy to disregard their differences because they fit together so well in the field, but the truth is that they're like oil and water everywhere else. They move at different speeds. They could be living in parallel worlds for all he knows. They follow skew lines running through opposite edges, and isn't this a tragedy? On Tony's side, at least.

"You're almost one hundred," Tony says as they go past the crowd gathering at the entrance. "Maybe they'll reconsider and go easy on you this time, given your age."

Steve looks at him and smiles a real smile, and it suddenly occurs to Tony that joking like this was an awful, very bad, outright terrible idea, because looking at him is like walking into quicksand, and now he can't help remembering _that_ smile. Tony hadn't died, after all; they had won, and Steve had looked at him with so much warmth that it still fucks him up to think they had to end like this.

Well, the fucking floodgates are open now, so much for self-preservation. Because what he remembers next is his dad going on and on about Captain America's greatness, the implication being that he had made him so, and then Auntie Peggy pulling Tony aside, making him sit on her lap, and telling him that his dad didn't know what he was talking about, that Steve Rogers was already great before the serum came along.

The man that Peggy told him about was human, relatable, not some impossible ideal forever out of reach. And Tony was just a kid who didn't know the first thing about anything, who ended up developing an embarrassing sort of crush on Captain America, an innocent little thing that his father made more complicated than it should have been. 

He outgrew that, of course. He left all of it behind, along with his childhood. He grew fast, he _had_ to grow fast in a way that wasn't immediately apparent. All that others saw was that he didn't use his full potential, that he only cared about having fun, that he wouldn't ever be ready to take up the baton from his dad when the day came. But it took a special kind of resilience, a fierce resolve, even, to have a father like Howard Stark and not get crushed under that yoke.

Tony sighs. All of this is beyond pointless and he has to keep moving on. He goes ahead, each step he takes to distance himself made easier with practice, and that's the moment when he hears Steve cry out his name. He turns, chilled by the sound, and next thing he knows they're on the ground, the polished corners of the steps are biting at his spine, there's gunfire, people are screaming. There are rays of light filtering through bullet-sized holes, the smell of smoke fills his nostrils, he can almost feel the sand below his fingers, but this isn't Afghanistan, this is D.C.

Steve says something. Whatever it is, it sounds like it's coming from a mile away even if he's close. He's too close, in fact, he's right on top of him, and Tony fights the impulse to raise his hands even if he can't, because isn't this just like Siberia all over again, except that Steve is shielding him with his body and Tony can't move, he can't reach for his gauntlet, his arm is pinned under the weight of Steve's body and he says, he thinks rather than says, _Move, for fuck's sake, oh God, please move,_ but it's no use.

Wanda steps forward, brings everything to a halt, says something he doesn't catch, and there's blue above him. It flashes quickly before his eyes, Steve's uniform, the inner circle of his shield as it comes down on him, but it's just the sky, virtually cloudless, the color of Steve's eyes. "Tony. Tony, are you all right?" His voice is strained and Tony's heart feels like it's going to burst any minute now, and there's warmth, so much warmth soaking through his clothes, and none of the blood is his.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Now that the others are here, he doesn't have to worry so much. If needed, they can go to Steve's aid on a moment's notice. Tony trusts them to do just that. They have always been staunchly loyal to Steve. The Accords only underscored how much._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. This is a bit on the longish side, but I didn't want to leave it on another cliffhanger. With luck, the next update will mark the return of shorter chapters and less waiting time, but well, who knows, really. Certainly not me. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Warning: Instances of PTSD.

His ears are still ringing when he makes out what Steve's saying. "Tony, are you all right?"

He can't be serious. _That's your blood giving my shirt a dye job,_ Tony wants to scream. _How the fuck can I be alright?_ And Steve's breathing is harsh, almost as loud as Tony's own heartbeats, and if something happens to him, nothing will ever be alright.

Someone crouches down next to them and Tony tenses up and tries to set himself free and do something, anything, just how many fucking times more is he going to fail to save those he— "Fuck it, Steve, move! _Come on,_ " Tony says under his breath, and his eyes actually sting when Steve holds him tighter instead of listening to him, as unflinchingly stubborn as he's always been.

"It's okay. Wanda just stopped the bullets, made them drop to the floor like it was _nothing._ They rushed over there and I'm here with you guys, so it's okay. There's nothing to worry about. Everything's under control. They just surrounded the— Wait, they got them? Hell yeah, they did. They got the bastards." _Lang._ It's Lang doing a terrible voice-over.

The tension leaves Steve's body. He feels heavier, and Tony touches Steve's back. His blood sticks to Tony's fingers like grease, it pools on the lines of his palm, and Tony decides on the spot that Steve's going to make it. He's a super soldier. What good is that fucking serum if it doesn't do what it says on the tin? He _has_ to make it. He can't possibly be so crass as to die on him on top of everything else.

"Oh God. Not all the bullets, then. Damn," Lang says quietly once he takes notice of the blood, but he snaps out of it quickly enough to help Tony roll Steve on his back.

Steve tugs at Tony's sleeve. "Tony, are you—"

"I'm fine!" Tony snaps, peeling the lapel of Steve's jacket. There's an exit wound close to his collarbone. Through-and-through, so there's no bullet tumbling inside his body. The angle's nothing crazy so it mustn't have hit bone on its way out, no fragments propelling themselves like shrapnel, but Tony doesn't know anything for sure. He doesn't have a way to know what he's missing, and he hates not knowing. He hates— 

"Keep track of vitals," he says in a thin voice after tapping on his watch, and he hates that this is all he can do. A few more taps and the particles wrap around his hand at rising speed until the gauntlet appears, and it still feels too slow. He's too slow without his suit, he's held back by his humanity, the expanse of his mind is limited by the constraints of his body. Take everything away and he's still Iron Man, but who gives a fuck about that if he can't do jack shit when it truly matters?

"The crowd," Steve says. He looks calm, even if his breathing isn't back to normal. If an artery had been nicked, he would be losing blood faster, he wouldn't be this alert. FRIDAY's readings seem to confirm it. He's going to make it. Tony presses his fingers against the side of Steve's neck and keeps count. It's completely unnecessary, FRIDAY's got this, but it still reassures him to know without a shred of doubt that he's alive. Steve's pulse flutters under his fingertips, and Tony should have seen this coming, he should have known that this was a possibility, he should have done _more._

Lang nods. "No one's hurt, Cap, just shaken."

"Is everybody really—?"

"You just heard. Everybody's safe," Tony says. "Now, where's that fucking ambulance?"

"I'm on it," Lang says, springing to his feet.

"Tony, it's fine. I've had worse," Steve says, covering Tony's hand with his own, and Tony's breath catches. He knows how this goes, he's seen it, he's felt it before. _You could have saved us._

He's walking that fine line between losing his grip on reality and losing his shit over what's actually real, what should have never happened, the very thing he was trying to prevent ever since the shit show in Berlin. And he should be used to the fact that his efforts are rarely enough, he should be intimately acquainted with failure by now, but this is driving him crazy.

If the bullet had caught Steve at a wrong angle, it could have killed him. And unlike any of the scenarios brought to life thanks to BARF, there would have been no fail-safe mechanism this time, no such thing as wishing it all away by doing something as simple as blowing a candle. He saw Steve die and that was one time too many, and this whole clusterfuck is too close for comfort. 

"Tony," Steve says, but Tony doesn't reply. Instead, he keeps careful track of Steve's heartbeats, he follows the pulsing pattern of Steve's heart, and if he stops counting for a single moment, he's going to lose it. "Tony, look at me. I'm fine. Just talk to me."

It suddenly occurs to Tony that his safety catch is off, that there's a tingle going up his arm, that he's breathing too hard, that he keeps blinking to focus. He must look like he's going to freak out any minute, which is just fucking great. "You bet we're going to have words, you and I, but not now," Tony says, and his voice comes out reedy, small, beyond pathetic. It's quite the feat already that he managed to string all those words together in the first place.

"Tony, this wasn't your fault."

" _Who_ said it was my fault?"

"You don't have to say it," Steve says softly. "Tony."

The EMTs are here at fucking last, and then they get Steve on the gurney. There are flashes going off all the way to the ambulance, and cameramen zooming on them, and reporters shouting at their mikes, and fuck them, really. Tony focuses on Steve with all his might, even if it's not ideal. He's giving Tony _a look,_ his brow furrowed as if he were worried about him, as if Tony was the one who needed to be looked after. It grates on Tony's nerves badly, it makes him angrier than he already is, but his only other option is to fall behind and do a scene, a do-over from the time all those journalists blocked his way after he visited Happy at the hospital, and something tells him that wouldn't result in good press, which they need.

The gurney goes in and Tony climbs right afterwards, fully prepared to argue in case anyone wants to boot him, but no one really bats an eye. "We'll follow you later," Lang says, making the doors close with a click, and the space feels too narrow all at once. It's the oddest thing, his armor is skin-tight in comparison, but he can't help the feeling. He just hates everything about this, no matter where he looks. 

All the machines feel foreign in ways that are deeply unsettling, and he tries to take them apart in his mind and zero in on the technical aspects, the straightforward design typical of mass-produced equipment, the plain blend of synthetic parts below the surface. On its own, each material has no connection to concepts such as life and death, but the thought doesn't make him feel better. He still hates all of it.

"He metabolizes things crazy fast," he hears himself say as the EMTs fuss over Steve, and after taking a deep breath, "That was something _stupid_ you just did."

Steve looks pale and weary, but the pity look he's been given him so far becomes angry, which is quite an improvement. "What was the alternative, _letting you get hurt?_ "

Tony snorts. _Oh, now you care about that,_ he thinks, but it's not the kind of sentiment that he wants to express when Steve just took a bullet for him, and he can compartmentalize, he guesses, he can save that for later. Which is not to say that he's not angry, but the anger over what Steve did before is going to have to wait and give way to the anger he's feeling right now over Steve being an complete idiot in a whole different way.

"It's _my_ thing, getting hurt," Tony says, knocking lightly on his chest to remind him that he needed a fancy magnet to stay alive, and Steve's blood has started to cake there; it's unreal. "It's my thing, not _yours._ "

And here's the thing, it's supposed to sound spiteful, not embarrassingly honest. In his mind, he delivers that line with a smirk, at the very least. In reality, however, his lower lip quivers for an instant—an involuntary contraction, nothing else—and if Steve caught sight of that, he's screwed. It's a sign of weakness. It's surrender. It's exposing a side of him he should have kept under wraps at all times. _You were important to me. God, you were so important to me. You still—_

That's enough. This is one-sided, unhealthy, and Tony said he wouldn't do this again, to put himself in harm's way willingly. Getting hurt may just be his thing, but it's not like he enjoys it. What is he, a masochist? Besides, what Steve did today changes nothing. It shouldn't. Steve could take a bullet for anyone and it wouldn't mean anything special. That's just the kind of things he does. It's how Steve rolls, even if you leave the mantle of Captain America out of it. He can't ignore situations pointing south. That's all there is to it.

In answer, Steve reaches out and holds his wrist. 

_Don't do that,_ Tony thinks, clenching his teeth. Steve's grip is light enough that Tony could shake off his hand if he wanted, but he fails to do it. He tries to ignore it next, very much in the same way he used to forget about the shrapnel lodged near his heart, but it's impossible. Steve's blood is a mix of specks and splotches left to dry on Tony's skin, a fine layer coating the spot that used to hold the arc reactor, and his fingers, gentle against Tony's spiking pulse, are too cold not to notice. 

The siren grows so loud that he can hardly hear his thoughts. He can hardly hear a thing over the rumbling cry of a Leviathan. And Steve's cold, but Tony's seen colder, and fuck, this can't be happening to him again. He has to remind himself that no matter how real that vision felt, it isn't true this very instant. He has to remember that—

—that Steve was dead, they were all dead, and Tony didn't have his suit with him, just like now.

His arm begins to prickle, each prickle becomes a sting, and Steve says something. Hopefully not _Why didn't you do more?_ because that would be all kinds of fucked up. He's breaking into a cold sweat. No, he _isn't._ Everything's fine.

"We're almost there," Tony says, slipping away from Steve's hold so that he can tug at his collar, and it takes a whole lot of effort to sound casual. His throat feels tight. Tighter. But the hospital is no longer looming in the distance, and that's a relief. It's close, they're almost at the entrance, and he can certainly hold it together a few seconds more. The doors will open, he'll take some fresh air, and then everything will be alright.

For now, he waits. The ride hasn't been long, but he can barely take it anymore. The atmosphere is heavy and it's not just the size of the space, it's not the fact that the legroom is probably equivalent to that of a low-cost airline's coach class. It's being close and having to hold it all in. Even if the EMTs have blended into the background, they're not alone. If they were, Tony could go off at Steve and let him have it. _You could have died, you stupid idiot. If you had died, then what the fuck would I have done?_

"Told you it was close," Tony says instead, and as soon as the ambulance pulls up, Tony makes for the exit. He grabs the door handle for support as he climbs down, you know, just in case his knees do a number on him, and the breeze makes him shiver slightly. A chill runs down his spine, but he's got this. It's fine. He's fine.

They're pushing the gurney down the aisle now, and Tony should probably say something before they tell him this is as far as he can go. It's the kind of moment that calls for platitudes such as _This is nothing_ or _You'll be up and running in no time,_ but doesn't that go without saying? This is Captain America we're talking about.

Steve looks at him instead of minding his business. Tony can tell even though he's looking ahead, and he could say a number of things as a placeholder for what's to come. He could impress on Steve that he's not getting easy out of this one, no sir. _You're going to get an earful, Rogers. So you better get your ass back here ASAP because I hate it when I'm made to wait._ In the end, the first thing that leaves his mouth is, "You know, if you didn't want to go back to the hearing, you should have just said so. There was no need to pull something like this."

This time Tony actually manages to say it in a deadpan tone, and it might be just that what Steve finds amusing, because he ends up chuckling. It's a quiet sound, almost a figment of the imagination, and it still makes Tony stop in his tracks. When was the last time he made him laugh?

"Trust me, it wasn't among my—" Steve says, and his breath catches right before he coughs, flecks of fresh blood dotting his fingers. At an intellectual level, Tony knows it's probably still nothing, but the logical side of him isn't the one that's currently steering the wheel. He's been operating with his self-control in dire need of a backup, he's been pulling through despite the fact that he's close to breaking point, and this just does it, it's the last straw.

" _Fuck,_ " Tony says, and his voice comes out all wrong.

 

 

As luck would have it, it's the second time he's on his way to a D.C. hospital. He doesn't remember the first time, not really, but there are details that he finds familiar, the bright lights overhead, all loose objects rocking softly inside the cabinets as the ambulance rushes through the streets, the way the siren pierces the air with an urgency that doesn't seem to have anything to do with him. It all spells déjà vu, but perhaps it's just his memory filling the empty spaces, taking whatever fragments there are available and making them whole.

He was alone when they found him by the Potomac. Steve doesn't remember that either, but he does remember the free fall as though he were no longer tethered to anything, neither to the past nor to the present, as though he were truly out of time, all of his reality washed away little by little as he sank into the water.

He was alone then, which meant that Bucky was safe somewhere out there. And he isn't alone now, which means that he was in time for once in his life, that he succeeded in protecting Tony. _God, you're alive,_ Steve thinks, and whatever pain he feels is of little consequence. _I did something good. I didn't botch things. You're alive, Tony. You're alive, thank God._

Steve wishes he could hold him just for a little while, to make sure. He wishes such a thing were allowed, and that Tony would let him. Tony looks miserable and it pains Steve to see him like this, with all the weight of the world once again on his shoulders. He's tense, raw, an implosion in the making, and Steve doesn't want to flatter himself with the idea that he's Tony's sole concern when the truth must be different. 

Tony probably hates that it was Steve the one who saved him, and more than that, he knows Tony hates getting caught off-guard. The future is tied to the core of who Tony is, and not being able to decipher it, to make projections and get ready to face what's coming must feel like a personal failure to him, even if it shouldn't.

 _You're only human, Tony,_ Steve thinks, drawing a sharp breath, and he's glad he got shot and not Tony, who's now speaking to the EMTs without looking at him. Steve barely registers the needle's prickle and the tubes wrapping around him, even if he can breathe more easily with the cannula under his nose. And it's fine, really. The fact that he doesn't get sick anymore doesn't mean he's forgotten how it was like to have a body that broke down more often than not. There were even times when the only thing that seemed to keep him among the living was willpower, good ol' grit. He's used to this. It doesn't warrant his attention in the slightest.

Instead, he's attuned to all the details that compose Tony, the way his clothes are in disarray, no attempt on his part to straighten them out, his eyes cast down, his lips pressed into a thin line, his unease. Steve can't stop staring, he doesn't even try to pretend that anything matters but him at the moment, and that's how he picks up the exact moment when Tony's jaw locks and his eyes turn to Steve, hard and full on him.

"That was something _stupid_ you just did."

Tony must be out of his mind if he thinks Steve had a choice. There was none to be made. None. Letting things be was not an option, not when there was a gleaming red dot tracing an imaginary line all the way to Tony's heart. It would have gone through and ripped it apart. His heart, which had already endured _enough._ And Tony might not get it, but Steve does. They thought he was gone once already, twice if Steve counted the moment after Tony fell out of the sky and his suit remained lifeless, nothing but pieces of hot metal enclosing his body.

Steve barely knew him then. They already shared a bond forged in the heat of battle, but Tony didn't mean half of what he does now. Yet the din of loss was there, as well as a crushing sense of failure. Steve goes back to the instant before Tony opened his eyes and gasped for breath, before the arc reactor flickered and light filled the very thing that kept him alive, and the idea that this could have been something permanent makes his blood go cold. If Steve had been late to react, if that bullet had reached Tony instead of him, it would have been the same story all over again. It would have been the second time Tony lay stock-still on the ground and Steve knelt by his side without being able to do anything, full of regret.

"What was the alternative, _letting you get hurt?_ " 

Steve has enough self-awareness to know how that sounds coming from him. It sounds like a bad joke. Tony even snorts, agreeing with him, and Steve wishes Tony had no reason to doubt him. He wishes he had never hurt Tony as badly as he had, that he hadn't heaped blows on top of secrets, that he hadn't walked away like that.

"It's _my_ thing, getting hurt," Tony says, and there are storm clouds rolling in, darkness settling on Tony's features, and Steve knows it's all his fault. Tony knocks on his chest, a dull sound instead of a metallic echo, and the absence makes Steve think of the first time he read Tony's file, the brutality of the words _embedded in his chest cavity_ and the quiet _Jesus_ forming on Steve's lips right afterwards. 

"It's my thing," Tony repeats, "not _yours._ "

And it hits Steve just now—it reminds him of Tony's talk at MIT, of the way his younger self bristled at the things Howard said. The worst hadn't happened to him yet, his parents hadn't died, he hadn't almost lost his life in Afghanistan, he hadn't almost lost his life all those other times, but there was already that prickliness, offense as the best defense, and below all that, just hurt.

He's flaring with the same kind of childish defiance that came up whenever someone touched a raw nerve. There was that time in the helicarrier, when Tony told him they weren't soldiers and Steve's only response was to be the ice to Tony's fire, his face perfectly still. And there was Siberia, with Tony lashing out with words that hit the mark because they were true. _You don't deserve that shield._ And once again, as in the beginning, Steve was nothing but cold indifference, or so it must have seemed to Tony.

As if anyone could be indifferent to Tony Stark.

Steve reaches out and brushes the back of Tony's hand, tentative. He's wearing a gauntlet on his right hand, but this one here, the curve of his knuckles, the length of his unclad fingers, all of it is just flesh instead of metal, just Tony. Very much human. _Alive._

When Steve wraps his fingers around Tony's wrist, it almost feels like an imposition. And Tony's going to have to forgive him for crossing the line this one time, even if he doesn't forgive him for anything else, but it's simply impossible not to react to Tony. Steve could be angry at him, he could hate some of the things Tony did, but he cared about Tony just as deeply. It wasn't a lie. It had never been one. 

He can also see, perhaps more clearly than ever, that among the excuses he had told himself about the way they clashed, protecting Bucky and stopping Tony from doing something that would eat away at him afterwards hadn't been the whole truth. It hadn't all been selfless. Steve had seen red. His anger had fed from pain, and what had hurt the most was the fact that it was Tony who wanted to see Bucky gone.

Tony, who knew how important Bucky was to Steve and just hadn't _given a damn_ anymore.

And—and all of it could have been avoided if only Steve had said something. It was true that he hadn't made the connection at first, that he hadn't put two and two together, mostly because he didn't want to think about it. Bucky was alive, which was already a lot to take in, and Steve hadn't wanted to dwell on all the truths that had surfaced after the fall of SHIELD on top of that, because if he did, then everything would truly sink in. That he was nothing but a pawn, that he couldn't trust anything, really, because his reality could change whenever he wasn't looking, from _Not the 40's anymore, son_ to _Newsflash, SHIELD is now HYDRA._

But he knew the truth, deep down. A part of him must have known since the beginning. And another part, the one that rebelled against the cards he had been dealt, must have wanted at least one thing to remain the same. Peggy was there for him, but there were times when she didn't remember who he was. Bucky hadn't died, but he hardly remembered him at all. Meanwhile, Tony was there, he was still _Tony,_ and not telling him was wrong, it was selfish, but Steve couldn't afford to lose this too, to have yet another thing taken away from him.

(Tony grips the edge of the seat, and Steve's fingers adapt, following the bas-relief of the tendons and veins under Tony's skin. _You're alive,_ Steve thinks, and it doesn't seem like the sheer wonder of it will wear off anytime soon.)

And Tony had gone through enough, hadn't he? He didn't deserve more pain coming his way, and once Steve convinced himself that he was doing it for Tony, keeping quiet wasn't that hard. And maybe it hadn't been Bucky, after all. Maybe it had all been a mistake, if not a lie.

Except it wasn't, and even if he were to explain all of it to Tony, Steve doesn't think he would understand. He had hoped Tony would, given time. He had hoped one day Tony would see that Steve had thought about him in his own shortsighted way and— 

—and Tony flinches all of a sudden, a tremor goes through him like electricity, it's right there underneath Steve's fingertips. "Tony? Tony, are you—"

"We're almost there," Tony says, feigning nonchalance. He also moves his arm in what amounts to a gentle little pull, freeing his hand to loosen the knot of his tie, and perhaps Steve would be more inclined to believe nothing's the matter if there weren't droplets of sweat pooling on Tony's forehead.

Steve doesn't try to touch Tony again, but he doesn't stop watching him either, the way his eyes flicker now and then, and how he opens his mouth as though he were trying to catch his breath and couldn't. Steve tries to alert one of the EMTs, but his chest feels so tight all at once, it makes him wince.

"Told you it was close, "Tony says, and then he's out of there as soon as the ambulance comes to a halt.

Steve's ready to drag himself towards Tony if that's what it takes, but it's not necessary. They're lowering the gurney now, and Tony is right there, breathing a little more easily now he's outside. He's quiet too, but that doesn't bother Steve, and he studies Tony's profile, the way he schools his expression, angry at first, and then just barely irritated.

"You know," Tony says, one eyebrow slightly raised, "if you didn't want to go back to the hearing, you should've just said so. There was no need to pull something like this."

Steve chuckles before he can think whether that was the appropriate reaction, but it was clearly meant as a joke, and he's sure of it because it's Tony and this rings familiar, it's almost like old times, it feels like home, and the happy tickle in his throat is worth all the ache.

"Trust me, it wasn't among my—" Steve starts, and the tightness around his chest comes back, also familiar. It used to be a little bit like this before the serum, and when he coughs, he can't say he's all that surprised to see blood.

" _Fuck,_ " Tony says, and Steve wants to tell him it's fine, but he only manages to cough again and make it all worse. Tony looks like he's the one who can't breathe now, he's sucking in air in short little gasps that doesn't seem to be enough, and it's like he's waking up from a nightmare, just about the same tension, the same painful straining to come back.

A nurse goes to Tony's side and presses a hand against his back, asks questions that Tony doesn't really answer to, other than to say he's fine, that it's not his heart, but he's clutching his chest all the same and his voice is thin, each word comes out in a gasp. And the gurney is moving, Steve realizes, and they're telling him that it's okay, that they'll keep an eye on Mr. Stark for him, but all he understands is that he's leaving Tony behind again and he won't stand for it.

In the end, though, it's not really up to Steve.

 

 

Here's yet another reason why he hates hospitals—no one wants to listen to him. Tony's been repeating over and over that he's fine, that he'd know if he were having a heart attack because even an activity tracker could have told him if he were in the middle of dying, and he actually has an AI at his disposal, not a fitness app. 

They probably didn't want to take any chances, though. And okay, he admits he wasn't all that convincing earlier, what with the wheezing and chest clutching, and he knows they're just doing their job, but he can't just sit idle like this, electrodes glued to his body and clear instructions to lie still or else they'll have to start again.

Nevertheless, he does exactly that, lying still, and not just because the sooner this is over, the sooner he can go and check up on Steve, who must be okay, who has to be okay, and if by any chance he isn't, Tony's going to kick his ass.

No, it's also because, embarrassing as it is, he can hardly move. Now that the adrenaline has mostly worn off, he feels as if he had been hit by a truck. He's clearly no longer a twenty-something who can get drunk, collapse wherever, and not hurt all over next morning. Instead, he can feel his nerves flaring with the late recollection of having those sharp steps stabbing his back, no cushion other than a bespoke suit. Again, because this is a thing that keeps happening to him and it shouldn't. He should have known, somehow, he should have prepared for this.

"So we're done here?" Tony asks the moment the doctor tears the paper strip and studies his heart's rhythm, the peaks and tiny waves in between. But no, they're not done, because now she's stalling by recommending other tests given his medical history and stressing the importance to keep his blood pressure in check. And yes, he had suspected he had to do exactly that; FRIDAY had also commented on his vitals before, but having the confirmation _thrills_ him. Another weakness and an incredibly pedestrian one to boot.

God, he feels ancient.

The doctor also suggests he talks to a colleague of hers about his anxiety, and that's sweet of her, but yeah, no, he has to split. In fact, he's already tugging at the electrodes when Clint drops by, raises a hand as if to say hello, and then engages in a game of charades that makes Tony raise an eyebrow. A palm out to tell him to wait, maybe, a thumbs-up to say that Steve is fine, probably, and then a finger gun pointing to the left to say he's going that way, apparently.

It's all pretty stupid, but it still makes Tony breathe in relief. Now that the others are here, he doesn't have to worry so much. If needed, they can go to Steve's aid on a moment's notice. Tony trusts them to do that. They have always been staunchly loyal to Steve. The Accords only underscored how much.

Really, that had been the real lineup, the half of the team that was good to go as long as Steve was leading and the half that agreed with oversight, and well, if Tony happened to fall on that side too, it couldn't be helped. Plus Rhodey, of course, who not only cared about doing the right thing but also about Tony, and he had been doing that for so long now that Tony had eventually stopped asking himself why. But other than Rhodey, they were Steve's kids, not Tony's, no matter what Steve says, and if there was anyone he could count on to look after Steve, it was them.

So.

Given that no one needs him to take a nuke on a one-way ride this time, he humors the doctor and waits for her pal. _I'm already making a pit stop, so I might as well,_ he thinks while he fishes his watch from his pocket, wipes the gel off his skin, and starts to button his shirt. _I don't really have anything to lose, even if I learn nothing new. I can walk away any time I see fit. I could do it this very instant and no one would stop me._

But he stays, not so much because he needs the help, though he does, but because the circumstances demand it. Losing his shit like he did earlier was simply no good, it was unacceptable, a glaring blunder, and fuck, he's so damn tired. He's fed up with dealing with everything on his own. He wants them to knock him out with something, he wishes for the luxury of eight hours of uninterrupted, dreamless sleep, he wants Steve to be fine, in one piece, perfectly ready to complicate Tony's life in one hundred different ways as is his wont.

Steve is an idiot. 

Tony breathes in and out, runs his fingers through his hair, then presses the heels of his hands against his closed eyelids, just for a second. Steve is not only an idiot, but a complete and utter fool. And anger is better than the alternative, not to mention that it seems to help, so Tony lets himself be angry. He revels in it. This is the fuel that will get him through the day before he can go, collapse wherever, and take five.

Doctor #2 is already there introducing himself, making small talk, pretty jovial on the whole. It's a spiel similar to the kind of thing you do when you have to go and rescue someone. You reassure them, maybe throw in a little joke or two to keep them from freaking out, then get them away from danger. Been there, done that.

Tony puts on a smile, slides into it with ease, _always,_ and says, "No offense, doc, you seem like a nice guy, but this'll be a five minute pep talk, right? Ten minutes tops? No digging into my childhood or anything like that, right? Because—"

"Sure," the doctor says with a nod, and he still seems pleasant enough, not peeved at all by what he just said, go figure. 

"Because I have somewhere else to be. Okay then," Tony says. He'll probably hear nothing groundbreaking at this point, but a couple minutes of someone lending an ear to him doesn't sound all that terrible. And besides, coping skills are like backups, you can never have too many of those. So he can at least keep his mind open.

Yeah, he can certainly do that.

 

 

When he steps into the aisle, Sam is waiting for him, face mostly relaxed, arms crossed but no tension overall. Nothing that spells disaster, then. "Is Steve—?"

"In surgery," Sam says with a nod. "But don't worry, he's fine. They're just patching him up. Well, he has a bruised lung, but they said it was on the mild side, and really, he's had worse. You okay?"

Tony shrugs on his jacket and straightens the lapels with a single tug. His tie is stuffed in one of his pockets, and as far as he's concerned, it can remain there wrinkled to oblivion. "Sure, why wouldn't I be? I just went for a checkup while we were here."

Sam smiles like he's used to dealing with stubborn people all day long, which he must be, being a friend of Steve's and all. "We took care of it. You don't have to worry about that either."

Tony smirks. "You're making it sound like a mafia hit."

This time, Sam chuckles. "Well, it's true we can't just stand idly by when they mess with one of our own."

"And I'm sure Steve appreciates that. I certainly—"

"I'm talking about _you,_ " Sam says. "We didn't know that Steve got shot, not at first. And you were the one being targeted."

"We don't know that for sure, do we? Maybe they just had terrible aim," Tony says, studying the hospital's hustle and bustle from up close not to look at Sam. "Did they say anything at all? HYDRA, was it?"

"Most likely. They didn't say a damn thing, but Natasha's on her way."

 _On her way to make them talk,_ Tony thinks. _Well, good luck, motherfuckers._ "And are you sure this wasn't a distraction to cover for something terrible happening elsewhere?"

"Natasha and FRIDAY were monitoring the situation. Nothing came up."

"I don't get it. They planned to gun me down and didn't think about using that to divert attention from whatever it is they have next on their sorry-ass master list of nefarious plans? They're getting sloppy."

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe taking you out of the picture was _the_ plan?"

"I considered it briefly, but nah, there must be something else."

Sam gives him a curious look. "You talk as if you dying wasn't enough of a big deal."

"Let's just say it's not the first time I come close to kicking the bucket, so it kinda isn't," Tony says with a quirk of his mouth.

"Well, it _is._ And whatever you do, don't go around sharing that theory of yours with Steve unless you want him mad," Sam says, shaking his head. Other than that, he lets Tony be, and it's refreshing not to get a talking-to the likes of which he's going to give Steve later.

The rest of the gang is huddled in one of the waiting rooms, and Tony claims a spot for himself, flopping at first and then sliding ungracefully until he can rest his head against the back of the seat. They ask if he's okay, which feels odd, even now. Thankfully, Sam replies before he has to. On the corner, the TV is spouting report after report of what's bound to be the top story of the day, if not the season.

"A news van?" Tony says, eyeing the news ticker. "They were hiding in a fucking news van?"

"The fucking fake news van," Clint says. "Wanda almost tore the whole thing apart. It wasn't very news-like inside."

"I didn't _tear_ it apart," Wanda says pointedly.

"Yeah, that's why I said _almost._ "

They're showing the shooting again, now with extra commentary and Tony lets out a shuddering breath just before the screen goes black. "I was _watching_ that," he says.

"Torturing yourself, you mean," Wanda says and the wisps of energy wrapping her fingers fade in the air like smoke. "We were there. If you want to know anything, you can ask us. You don't have to watch that now."

" _Fine,_ " Tony says, making a whole display of crossing his arms, and then, very quietly, "Thanks. All of you, actually—"

"Hey," Sam says.

"No, all of you—good job today, guys. Yeah. So, uh, coffee. Do you want coffee? Coffee for all. I think the cafeteria was just around the—"

"I'll go get it," Lang volunteers. "Cream? Milk? Sugar?"

"Black. No wait," Tony says, because that might just be the wrong choice right now. His heart hasn't gotten the memo yet, so the last thing he needs is to have it pumping faster for no reason at all. "Some tea, I guess."

There's nothing left to do, so they wait. He talks with Natasha over the phone while they do, and when the beverages arrive, he wraps his hands around the cup to keep himself warm, one cheek pressed against his shoulder to keep his phone in place. It's uncomfortable to do it this way. It doesn't matter.

"Let me handle it, Tony. FRIDAY has all the information we need and you can check it later."

" _Indeed I do, boss._ "

"See? Take it easy, at least this time," Natasha says. "Let me handle it."

"It's not that I think you can't, obviously," Tony says matter-of-factly, still sprawled on the chair and taking little sips from time to time. "It's the other thing that's an impossibility."

"Here's something easier for you to do, then. Give Steve a hug for me when you can."

Tony almost chokes on his tea. " _Very funny,_ Romanoff."

"Well, I _had_ to try."

Rhodey's call comes next and it's such a relief just to be able to see his name appear on the screen, and all the more so to hear his voice.

" _Tony._ Are you okay?"

This time he stands up, a major effort all on its own, wandering off for a little privacy. "I'm working on it, honeybear. Diligently. You have no fucking idea."

"I may have an inkling," Rhodey says, and Tony pictures the right kind of smile to match his words—soft, a small curl of the lips.

"I'm pretty angry, too. I'm pissed. That helps."

"At Steve?" Rhodey asks, even if he must know the answer already.

"Why, yes!" Tony gesticulates wildly with his free hand and the tea swishes inside his cup but doesn't spill. He's got this. "Yes, because how dare he. I swear, it's like he's out to get me. He wants to end me."

"A case could be made for the opposite," Rhodey says, amused.

"Oh, _come on._ "

"Listen," Rhodey says, and Tony does just that, slightly crooking his neck towards the phone. "It's not that he's not on my list—"

"Your list," Tony repeats. "You have a list?"

"I happen to have one."

"And Steve's somewhere in there."

"Yes, but he just dropped significantly in the ranking."

"Oh buddy," Tony says with a snort. "You're delightful."

"I'm just grateful for what he did today, Tony."

"Well, good for you. I'm just _pissed._ "

Rhodey chuckles. It's a warm, pleasant sound. "I'm grateful enough for the both of us. You can tell him that if anything else is too hard."

"I'll think about it," Tony says, letting out a sigh. "I can't make any promises."

"That's okay, Tony," Rhodey says. "That's quite okay."

He finishes the rest of his drink in one go, and when he does, he finds Clint in front of him. "Look, Barton, I'm not really up to another round of charades."

Clint gives him a crooked smile before he comes closer. They do highly productive things then, such as staring off into space while ignoring the awkward silence. Predictably, Clint breaks first. "Man, I'm sorry. I know that was fucked up. What I said back then, I mean."

Tony hums and shrugs to ease a kink on his neck, but he listens to him otherwise.

"Laura was pretty angry," Clint says, eyes cast down and hands tucked in his pockets.

"It's not easy staying behind and not knowing what the hell is going on," Tony says and the memories come in dribs and drabs, a warm smile here, a broken promise there. His parents made it work, but it's not like that for everybody. "It gets old after a while."

"Yeah. If it makes you feel any better, I've been getting the couch?"

"Just be glad you didn't end up sleeping in the barn, which is where I would have sent you," Tony says, keeping his tone light. Just ribbing, as if nothing had ever changed.

"Hah. Still, she was glad to see me. Didn't push me to sign another kind of papers, if you know what I mean. My kids were happy too," Clint says, and after a pause or two, "Thank you."

"Kids grow up fast, Clint. Try not to miss out on that too much. Next thing you know, they're teens and they hate your guts." _And it's not like that's easy for them either,_ Tony doesn't say.

"I know."

"Hey, your aim still good?" Tony says, because that was enough of sharing feelings and taking trips down memory lane. "This cup, that trash can."

"You just don't want to walk over there, don't you. Fine," Clint says and takes the cup out of Tony's hands. It lands square in the can to nobody's surprise.

"Show-off."

"Cap will be okay, you know? Tough guy," Clint says.

Tony takes a deep breath. "Yeah, I'm sure."

 

 

The surgery goes well, no complications whatsoever. They resume waiting after that, telling stories to pass the time, or in Tony's case, listening to the sound of their voices while he slumbers for a while, eyes closed and fingers pressed against the bridge of his nose. Light, dreamless sleep. A blessing.

"—wants to see you," someone says, but he only registers half the words.

"What?"

Clint gives his shoulder a little squeeze. " _Cap._ We had to tell them you were the fiancé."

"Pft," Tony says, rubbing his eyes. "He wants to see me?"

"Yes. Whenever you're ready, Mr. Stark," the nurse says.

When he enters the room, Steve is not only wide awake but also looking significantly better by virtue of not being covered in blood. "They said you were okay," Steve says in a small voice, and it shouldn't unsettle Tony the way it does, not when it's just a whisper.

"And you _didn't_ believe them. Distrustful of others, are we?" Tony says, tapping his fingers against the bed rail without looking at Steve.

"Are you? Okay, I mean."

"Well, not completely, given that I had planned to rip you a new one and now you caught me at the wrong time, made me lose all momentum. It's coming, though, just let me recharge here for a while," Tony says, flopping on the chair next to Steve's bed. "If you must know, everyone was worried, Natasha sends hugs, Rhodes says thanks."

Steve nods in acknowledgement—Tony can see it out of the corner of his eye even without turning. He would have to face the opposite wall not to notice his every move. He would have to walk away to avoid being aware of his presence.

"I bet they're singing your praises after this," Tony says and something ignites inside him, it expands with heat. Anger. It has to be anger. What else could it be? "They're probably cheering you out there, even if you keep taking stupid decision after stupid decision. Your reputation precedes you. Your golden glow makes everything holy even if it's full of shit."

God, he sounds like a huge asshole.

"I'm just awfully glad you're not dead," Steve says, polite to a fault.

"Because that way you get to make amends? Imagine how that would have been then, me going down without ever forgiving you. The ultimate up yours," Tony says, laughing, and the thought is horrible. It's not so much the idea of his death that upsets him, but the fact that unfinished business has a way to gnaw at you, and that's not something he would go around wishing freely on anyone, not even on Steve.

"I can live with the idea of you never forgiving me," Steve says, clenching his jaw as if it pained him. "Sometimes I think I can't, but most days I can get by. I couldn't if you were gone."

"Oh, you could," Tony says. If Tony could get used to the absence of things he couldn't live without, Steve could certainly deal with it. He already left him behind once.

"Tony—"

"Do you think I would have gone swing dancing on your grave if it had been you? Do you really think you dying would have made me _happy?_ " His shoulders slump all at once, head held low. And all this anger, all this lashing out amounts to fear, doesn't it? Fright. _I was afraid of losing you, you idiot. God, I hate you so much._

Steve reaches out then, places his hand on Tony's head, and the angle is weird but it's warm all the same, and he doesn't want him to let go, he wants him to— Oh. _Oh, fucking hell._

"I'm sorry that I make your life so hard no matter what I do," Steve says softly, and something awful takes hold of Tony, dark tendrils of affection that completely jeopardize the simmering, steady, reliable anger he had settled for and made part of his routine. Steve's touch is gravity, the call of the void, and he can't fucking help it, goddammit, he's going to fling himself right into it, isn't he? _Wonderful. Just wonderful, Stark. Sure, go ahead and pick the self-destructive path yet again. Well fucking done._

"Well," Tony says, clearing his throat and disengaging as best he can. "Well. The least you can do is to let me get back at you for all those times you barged into my lab, my room—"

_And my fucking life, God._

"—as if you owned the place. So I don't know, maybe go back to sleep or something while I'm here. You know, before someone kicks me out."

Steve smiles horribly, disgustingly, like he knows his smiles are good and he's doing it on purpose, but he actually listens to Tony this time, heaves a little sigh, and closes his eyes.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There are a lot of maybes between them, enough to lay a path around the world._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again. Their relationship isn't out of the woods yet, but there's definitely some progress.

The first thing he picks up is the music. It nudges him closer to awareness even if his eyelids remain heavy, unwilling to open just yet. There are still echoes of the dream he had last, remnants of words that seemed to come through radio waves—indistinct, granular, a thing of the past.

White lies to ease him into his new reality.

The thought makes his heart race as if he were running through the streets in a body that he isn't used to, reflexes not worth a dime, and the feeling of having missed the better part of a century yet again is so strong that he almost expects it. _Just an absolutely gorgeous day here in D.C._ But it's not an old radio broadcast. It's not seventy odd years later. It's just now, just music. Tony is safe. He was here just a little while ago. That wasn't a dream. Everything is fine.

"Steve," someone says. Someone. Wanda.

"Trouble Man?" he manages to croak as his eyes take in the whole room little by little. The shield is propped against the wall and within easy reach, and that's a comforting thought right until it's not.

"Sam said it was your very own hospital soundtrack," Wanda says, a magazine on her lap, an earbud in one ear, and her phone in her right hand. She goes back and forth between flipping through the pages and sliding her thumb across the screen, sometimes all at once. _Young people these days._

"I guess it is," he says.

"It suits you."

 _Troublemaker,_ Steve thinks, and the voice is Tony's instead of his own. "Tony, he—"

"Back at the hotel. He would still be here if we hadn't made him leave, but you probably knew that already," she says, and while it sounds like Tony to do just that, it's something Steve couldn't have known. The reason is simple, really. He doesn't have the right to expect anything from Tony, so he doesn't.

"He's not alone, is he?" Steve asks, and his voice still sounds rough.

"Of course not. Who do you take us for? We have our hands full watching over the two of you," Wanda says, and there's a little smirk playing on her lips as she hands him a cup of water.

"Thank you," he says with a raised eyebrow. He takes a few sips before settling back against the bed, and that's when he notices it. Unlike before, the drugs seem to be doing a better job of keeping up with him and dulling the pain. The wound itself is nothing but a tingle, barely a bother, and the thought that comes next feels entitled, somehow.

It simply occurs to him that coming up with the right dose would have been child's play for FRIDAY, as easy as predicting each of his movements had been. Physiological data, fighting patterns, personal preferences—she kept careful record of all of it, just as JARVIS had done in the past, and for a moment Steve wonders whether she never once suspected that a rift could happen between them with all that information at her disposal.

But no, if Tony had failed to see it coming, she wouldn't have had a way to know either. None of them had, not even Steve. If he had known that every single step he took was leading them closer to that moment, he would have been duty bound to do things differently.

For God's sake, Tony had smiled at him. Steve recalls that tiny smile of his as they agreed on a truce, a curl of the lips that didn't quite reach his eyes, that never did. He wishes he could have preserved that for longer, but it's the look on Tony's face at the very end what doesn't ever leave his mind.

 _Even without visuals, it wouldn't have taken a genius to guess what happened,_ FRIDAY had said to him during one of the many conversations they held after his return, back when Tony still refused to talk to him.

At his insistence, she had gone on to describe in very general terms the structural damage of Tony's suit, the precise amount of force that the alloy would have had to bear each time Steve brought the shield down. He had etched every single word into memory, even filling in the details that she wouldn't disclose. Cuts, bruises, cracked ribs. The post mortem of their fight.

_Your vitals tell me you're uncomfortable, yet you're not asking me to stop._

_Maybe it's because I deserve to be uncomfortable,_ Steve replied.

FRIDAY hummed in that particularly human way she had to act sometimes. _Your letter._

_Yes?_

_I could have suggested far better turns of phrase._

Steve almost smiled. _I'm sure of that._

 _Captain Rogers, I can't forget unless I'm told to. Luckily for all of us, I can't hold grudges either, which means I can learn to trust you again. After all, learning is what I do best. But that won't be easy for him. Far from it. I hope you're aware,_ she had said.

Steve was aware, in fact. He's aware, achingly so. Tony had said it himself. If the worst had come to happen, Tony would have died without forgiving him, and that's a burden Steve will always carry upon his shoulders. He could give up the shield again, he could burn his uniform until nothing remained but soot, but this would always stay with him. The things he did, the decisions he took, the secrets he kept. That was all him. Not Captain America, just Steve.

So he doesn't hope. He doesn't read into things. If Tony was kind enough to make sure that Steve wouldn't be in constant pain, that's just him being Tony. It's not going out of his way to take care of someone the likes of Steve. It's just attention to detail and the kind of thoughtfulness he would have shown to anyone. That's all, no matter how badly Steve wants it to be more than that.

Wanda sighs at her phone and pinches the screen. "Did you know that Tony made arrangements for us to keep an eye on you at all times? He did. If it wasn't for that, we would have had to wait outside. Which reminds me, my shift is almost over."

"You have shifts?"

She nods. "We're all organized now. No one wanted to be all _I thought you were with him_ and _What do you mean no one's keeping watch right now,_ and things like that. We take these things pretty seriously," she says, and although her tone is light, he doesn't doubt her words. "You scared us all for a moment there, you know? Some of us more than others."

Steve is about to say something— _You just love to be contrary, Rogers,_ the Tony in his mind informs him—but in the end he keeps quiet. Not even he can deny that, can he? Because no matter how he slices it, Tony had looked scared, so thoroughly shaken that Steve would have done anything to keep him away from it all.

"The relay team's here," Wanda says, waving at the window.

Natasha waves back but remains outside while she takes a call, and Steve watches her closely, looking for cues. She looks outraged at first, which sets off his alarm bells, but then she rolls her eyes mid conversation and keeps her phone a couple of inches away from her face. It brands the whole exchange as annoying rather than serious, no cause for concern.

Wanda gathers the rest of her things and says her goodbyes, but she stills lingers by the door for a moment. "Things are changing, Steve. Good for you," she says with a smile, and before he can ask her what she means with that, she's out of there.

 

 

"Some people seem to think you're dead and they insist on us providing proof to the contrary," Natasha says as soon as she enters the room.

"Do you have a newspaper I can hold while I strike a pose?" Steve says, deadpan.

Natasha pulls the chair closer to the bed and takes a long look at him. "You seem pretty chipper for someone who just got shot."

"Maybe it's because bikinis are no concern of mine," he says, and she cracks a smile.

"I'm glad you're not a goner," Natasha says, squeezing his hand. "And now, am I right to suppose you have questions to ask?"

"How's Tony doing?"

"The important questions first, I see. Well, he's . . . busy," she says softly as though she were breaking a piece of particularly upsetting news, and she must know him well, because it's upsetting all right.

"Busy? He should be taking a break. Why is it that he always—" he starts saying, but it's no use. Tony's the one who should be hearing this, not Natasha.

"Oh, you know he can't be idle for long. Besides, it keeps him from driving himself crazy. I promise he isn't doing any heavy lifting, in any case. We wouldn't let him," she says, and he takes a deep breath to cool off but it doesn't help any.

"Who did it?" Steve asks next, heart beating fast enough for the monitors to pick it up. It's entirely visceral, a searing heat, and he finds that he's more than ready to know who were the bastards that dared to think they could take Tony away from them.

"HYDRA. Sort of," Natasha says, and before Steve can say anything in response, she adds, "Don't blow your stitches just yet. Let me explain. They were green. They came up with the plan on short notice, which is why we didn't learn about it on time. All the steps leading to that moment, all the things that worked for them until then were the result of sheer dumb luck. On the other hand, if they had had an expert marksman among their ranks, I'm afraid it would have gone very differently."

"I wouldn't have gotten a single warning," Steve whispers.

Natasha shakes her head. "They didn't want to take you out. It would have turned you into a martyr. They wanted to see you fail. And Tony made a good target. All this time, he has acted as our spokesperson. He has done everything in his power to improve the team's standing. If it hadn't been for him, if we didn't have him—"

"Jesus," Steve says, pressing a hand against his face. His whole body tenses up. Even the skin surrounding the wound grows tight. To think that it came so close, that he let it come this close—

"Steve. _Steve._ Listen to me," Natasha says, and her fingers curl around his elbow. "You didn't fail. Tony is safe. You protected him. They wanted to take advantage of the situation, but you being ready to lay down your life for him, doesn't that speak louder than any assurances we could give about us still being a team?"

"Did he—" Steve starts, but his throat is still dry and each word gets caught with ease. "What did Tony say?"

Natasha presses her lips into a line. "Well, he said, and I quote, _My work being recognized by HYDRA's leftovers. What an honor. I guess I'm no longer in want of accolades._ "

"That's all he said?" Steve asks, going cold and then hot in the blink of an eye.

She shrugs as if saying _I don't know what you were expecting,_ and while a small part of him can't believe that Tony would joke about something like that, the rest of him gets it. Steve gets him, Tony Stark, _finally,_ the masks he wears day to day, the walls he puts up not to get hurt, and how making light of things is just another way for Tony to keep himself safe.

 _There are things about Tony that are only for show,_ Steve tells himself, remembering, and once the storm is past, once all the anger, the tension, and the dread have been chipped away, this is what remains—the same thing he felt as he watched over Tony's sleep. Fondness. Warmth, so much warmth.

And because it's Steve, because this is the way his life unfolds, the timing is off. He's almost always late. It's a running joke by now.

"Look," Natasha says, and when he fails to reply, she drums her fingertips against his arm to call his attention. "Nurse at three o'clock." 

When Steve raises his eyes, he sees Sharon peek into the room. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all, come in," Natasha says, a mischievous little spark in her eyes. "It suits me wonderfully since I have a couple of calls to make. Make yourself at home, Kate."

"Thank you, Natalie," Sharon says, perfectly sunny, and then both of them share an amused look before Natasha steps outside.

"You do know each other's names," Steve says.

"Old coworker banter," Sharon explains with a shrug. "Hey."

"Hey," he says just as an actual nurse enters with a tray of food, and he would consider that an interruption, except that it gives him time to take a breath, to tuck away all the regret there where it can't be seen or felt by anyone else.

"Something that interests you?" he asks once they're alone again. Sharon seems to be giving his food a sidelong look, and Steve does his best to put on a smile for her despite it all. It's the least he can do, even if it's only pretense, the idea that he can allow himself this lightheartedness, that it becomes him, that he deserves it.

"You don't really think I dropped by just to spirit away your food, do you? It's just that seeing your tray, I don't know, it makes me feel bad I didn't bring you a burger as a get well gift."

"A burger," he repeats.

"A _decent_ one. A quarter pound of first-rate beef at the minimum," she says, crossing her arms to say that she means business.

"I had no idea you felt this strongly about them," he says and it's the truth. There are many things he doesn't know about her, even if she's been made familiar through the things they share, the grief, the memories, the different pieces of the puzzle that was Peggy's life. There were many things he didn't know about Peggy either, things he would never learn about, even if back then it felt as though he had known her best of all.

"Well, now you know who you're dealing with," Sharon says in a playful tone, but the way she looks at him is different. The world has kept turning while he was away, and although it should be a surprise, it's not. He knows better than that. Things change all the time.

"I feel like I should apologize," Steve starts, but she's already shaking her head as if she wanted to stop him from embarrassing them both. And maybe she's right about that, maybe an actual apology would sound half-hearted, like going through the motions. It would cheapen what used to be there instead of leaving it on a good note. Because if he had really wanted to get in touch sooner, wouldn't he have done exactly that?

"Don't. You were certainly busy and I was doing my own thing too. I'm not sure if you know this about me, but I tend to march to the beat of my own drum," she says, eyes lighting up, and in this she's like Peggy. She's not someone you can hold back.

"I had my suspicions," Steve says. It makes her chuckle.

"Yeah. I still wanted to make sure you were okay."

He smiles back and this time it's easy. It shouldn't be, perhaps, not when another door has closed in front of him. But the urge to come knocking it down isn't there, and the only explanation that comes to him is that he no longer imagines this kind of future for himself. A different guy came out of the ice for better or for worse, and even if he still wanted all of it, he doesn't think he has the room nowadays. Having someone to return home to sounds nice, but how can he expect anyone to be there for him when there's no returning from the war?

Steve thinks of Clint and Scott leaving their kids behind, of how difficult it was to see them talk through a screen, all those miles in between, and he doesn't think he could do it. All he can think of, the only thing he dares to imagine is that if Tony and Pepper hadn't broken up, if Tony had been able to have a family of his own and none of this had happened between them, maybe, just maybe, he would have let Steve be a part of his life.

"And what now? They're still expecting you to sign," Sharon says, curious rather than probing. "Will you?"

It all comes rushing back to him then, the set of pens that Tony laid on that table, the sound of his voice as he pleaded with Steve to see reason, the fading light of the arc reactor, the bright red dot making Tony a target. "I could have lost him," Steve says, and it's unexpected but not less true. 

He had already lost Tony in ways that felt permanent, but losing him for good, to see Tony erased from the future he belonged to while Steve, of all people, remained behind would have been the height of unfair. It would have been too high a price to pay for his mistakes, and not taking the chance to push for change had been one of them. Now he can admit that to himself. "Everything happened because we were divided. He could have died, and me sticking to my guns would have never been worth it."

So many things had come undone when he decided not to sign, and while his misgivings are still there, they have weakened over time. They have grown pale rather than distinct, so small as not to carry the same weight. It's one of the truths of life. Nothing remains unchanging, not even someone like him, and the person he is now no longer considers this a capitulation. He could finally afford to take this leap of faith. Not because he was in complete agreement with the Accords, but because his faith was in his team, in every single one of them.

"You know," Sharon says, a wistful look on her face, "Aunt Peggy was awfully fond of Tony Stark. And I know it was mutual. He expressed his regrets for not making it to the funeral."

Steve blinks, caught off guard. "He did?" And this is yet another thing that shouldn't have surprised him, but it does. Peggy and Howard went back a long time. Of course that she would have known Tony since the time he was a bright little boy. Of course that she would have loved him. 

He wishes he had known. He wishes he could have asked her about Tony, about his childlike curiosity, about the small and the big ways in which he rebelled against Howard, about how much he had loved his mother. And it crosses his mind just now that if Tony had made it in time, if they had been able to talk without the Accords hanging over their heads, then maybe—

There are a lot of maybes between them, enough to lay a path around the world.

"I should go. Your lunch is probably cold by now," Sharon says with a sheepish smile.

"Thank you," he says, meaning it. "For everything."

"Just try to stay out of trouble for longer than five minutes," she says, eyes warm right until she leaves.

 

 

"I heard Sharon dropped by," Sam says with a wiggle of his eyebrows. He settles on the chair next to him and crosses his arms as if he were waiting for the whole story, and Steve wonders whether it would be too much of a cop out to pretend he really needs to go back to sleep right now.

In the end he settles for "We're just friends," and he knows how that sounds, but it's still easier than explaining everything in detail.

"Right," Sam says, giving him a knowing look. "You looked very friendly last time I saw you two together."

"No, really. We left it at that."

Sam's face falls. "Oh."

"No, it's fine," Steve says, and perhaps some explaining is in order after all, because it would feel odd to get sympathy for something that doesn't make him sad, not quite. "She's not one to sit around and wait, which is something I would have never asked of her. Sharon deserves more than that. She's great, really. She deserves someone who always has her in mind, which is something I admittedly made a poor job of."

"Yeah, no, I get it."

"Yeah," Steve says, looking out the window. The afternoon sky is bathing the room in warm light, shades of red, orange, and gold bleeding into each other, and he remembers picking one of the photos from Tony's file and examining it from up close, the silhouette of his Malibu mansion against the backdrop of a sunset. 

It had struck him as excessive, so wildly different from what Steve had known all his life that he'd failed to find anything relatable about him. The one thing they seemed to have in common was the fact that they were from the same state, and that's where the similarities stopped. Not only had Tony been born in Manhattan of all places, he had actually gone and uprooted himself from New York to go west, to chase the glamour and the glitz of California, which apparently hadn't petered out since back in the day.

It was a guess on Steve's part, but then again, it was easy to make assumptions about Tony. His suit of armor was purposefully flashy, he looked vain and self-important, and he obviously liked to lead a grand life. It simply seemed like he was a better fit over there. But what Steve hadn't suspected then, as he did now, is that Tony had picked the West Coast to get away from everything after his parents died. He had moved to the other side of the country to escape the past.

"So, did you see Tony? How is he?"

Sam chuckles all of a sudden. "Sorry, it's just that— No, never mind. Okay, so _Tony._ Yes, I saw him. I'm not sure the man even knows what time-out means."

"He doesn't."

"We've been telling him to take it easy, but he's sneaky about it," Sam says, shaking his head. "On the other hand, I'm not sure that peace and quiet would do him good right now."

"He looked like he was running out of air when we got here, Sam. He looked like he couldn't breathe. They thought it was his heart, but it wasn't. They said it was anxiety."

Sam frowns. "A panic attack? Well, it makes sense. What hasn't happened to the guy?"

"I sure haven't helped any with that," Steve says, closing his hand into a fist.

"Listen, Steve, I know things aren't great between you. Believe me, I know. But you do care about each other. We know that. Anyone who saw what happened in front of the Capitol knows that, and that's everybody, really. You'd have to live under a rock not to have seen it. So that leaves the two of you. Do you get it? Because sometimes I think you don't."

"I don't think that's the problem," Steve says.

"Just give it time, man. Have a little faith. There are all kinds of crazy things happening in the world and you're gonna tell me this is the one thing that's impossible? I don't think so."

Steve sighs. "How I hope you're right."

"Of course I am," Sam says with an easy smile.

 

 

Falling asleep isn't harder just because he's lying on a hospital bed. It remains as difficult as always, what with weariness taking root well in advance of actual sleep. Usually, the next best thing was to close his eyes while his thoughts became quieter, images and words blending into one another, into dreams if he was lucky, which didn't happen often. He would still be awake, mindful of every little noise for a good while.

Over here it's the staff making their rounds, a stretcher rolling down the aisle, hushed voices passing by. No street sounds reach this floor, but he thinks he can hear a helicopter in the distance, a soft rumbling sound that disappears into the night before he can guess where it's heading. Someone enters the room. The door closes with a soft click and Steve lies there, waiting.

" _Scanning._ " 

For a moment, he doesn't know whether he has misheard. He fiddles with the tube that is clinging to the back of his hand, but then he catches himself. He's supposed to be sleeping.

" _Everything is in order, boss,_ " FRIDAY says in a low voice, and his heartbeat picks up even before he opens his eyes and sees Tony standing by the window, fingers parting the blinds to look outside.

"So it would seem," Tony whispers. The soft glint of light catching on metal is familiar, and Steve notices that he's wearing his gauntlet again. _For precaution,_ he thinks, and what follows is the memory of Tony back in that ambulance, how fragile he had looked, as if whatever it was that held him together was about to fall apart.

"Tony."

"Did I wake you up?" Tony asks without looking at him. 

"No, you didn't."

Tony hums, but he remains silent otherwise. He still hasn't turned away from the window, and it's almost as if he were avoiding him, but that hardly seems to matter when he's here. "I figured we wouldn't have to talk if I got the graveyard shift," he says at last.

"You should be resting."

"Look who's talking. Besides, I'm used to pull all-nighters."

"You shouldn't," Steve says because he can't help himself.

Tony gives him an exasperated look. "That's a lot of shoulds for such a short amount of time, Rogers. You're really making me regret not asking Vision to take one for the team and plant himself here 24/7. It would have been a tad thoughtless to monopolize his time like that, though, even if he doesn't need to eat or sleep. Or go to the bathroom."

"I'm worried about you, Tony," Steve says, trying from a different angle. He's not good with words, not when it gets personal, but he can't afford not saying this. "It doesn't mean I'm not glad you're here. Because I am. I'm glad you're here." _You have no idea how much._

"I can't say the same," Tony retorts before he looks away again. "You're in a hospital."

Steve lets out a chuckle, and it seems to ease the tension somehow. They fall silent after that, and Steve tries not to stare, lest Tony takes it as a challenge of some sort. He tries to look at him only in oblique ways, in ways that feel safe, such as focusing on the wrinkles bending at the elbow of his leather jacket, squiggly lines that go down his sleeve until they meet metal and skin.

"I hadn't seen your gauntlet before," Steve says. He has absolutely no idea where he's going with this, and truth be told, he's probably pushing his luck, but all he wants is to talk to him. "I mean, I did. But I forgot to ask you about it," he says stupidly. Of course that he forgot to ask him about it. They were riding to the hospital. Tony had almost died. What on Earth is he saying?

"I'm fond of it. It saved me from getting shot in the face by your bosom buddy, so," Tony says with a quirk of his mouth and a shrug.

" _Jesus Christ,_ Tony," Steve says, gaping at him. He remembers the black eye on Tony's face and Sharon saying _You know, he kind of tried to kill me,_ and suddenly it all becomes more real. "You almost got shot?" _By Bucky,_ he thinks. Bucky, who hardly ever failed, who wouldn't have even stopped to think about what he was doing, not as the Winter Soldier.

The thought alone makes his blood curdle.

"I almost got shot many times. I'm sorry you got front row tickets to the last one, but I wouldn't dwell on it too much if I were you," Tony says, by all appearances flippant, except that something flickers on his face, eyes growing darker. "I probably made it sound worse than it actually was. Forget about it."

This time, the silence feels dreadful. Steve tried not to think about how Tony had wanted to kill Bucky, but at least he had been there to stop it. Having to avoid thinking about Bucky killing Tony while knowing he wouldn't have been able to get there in time . . .

It was simply too much.

"I'll go get some coffee. I'll be nearby," Tony mumbles, and that's enough to make Steve snap out of it. _You're not going to come back,_ Steve thinks, and his mind scrambles for something to say, anything that makes Tony stay put and not leave.

"You didn't tell me you knew Peggy," Steve blurts.

Tony leans against the wall with a sigh. "For longer than you did, in fact, not that it's a competition. You just never thought to ask."

"I wish I had asked you so many things," Steve says, and if he had actually written down all of it, who knows how many notebooks he would have filled by now.

"And I wish you had told me so many things, but we don't always get what we want," Tony says, and after taking a deep breath, he adds, "I don't really want to fight with you, Steve. Go to sleep."

"I don't want to fight with you either. I _hate_ it when we do."

In answer, Tony's forehead furrows all over again. "And I hate to break it to you, but that's what we do. I wonder what our next fight will be about. Wanna bet? My money's on it being something outstandingly stupid. Or maybe we'll pick up from where we left last time, who knows," he says, and Steve wonders if time is really all they need. Maybe what they need is a miracle.

Maybe he just has to try harder.

"It's _not_ what we do."

"See?"

"We're not fighting, Tony," Steve says, but Tony just shakes his head and makes for the door, and he can't let him walk away like that, he just can't. It's not what they do, it's not their thing, it's not who they are. Fine, maybe they weren't friends, exactly. Not like he was with Bucky, at least, with Natasha or with Sam, with the rest of them. Perhaps a different word ought to exist to explain them, to account for the electricity and the way they had to get under each other's skin.

"I just want to—" Steve starts to say, and his voice comes out all wrong but he makes no effort to hide it. _I just want to have you back. Why does it have to be so damn hard?_

Tony sighs so deeply that the sound comes tugging at Steve's heart. "Okay, fine," he says, hoarse and tired, but he _doesn't_ leave. Instead, he goes and flops on the vacant bed, hiding behind the half-drawn curtains until Steve can't see him at all. "You don't want me projecting things on your face," Tony adds by way of explanation.

"Thanks," Steve says. He breathes out and sets his cheek on the pillow, looking in his direction anyway. There's light coming out of Tony's phone, and he watches the holograms flicker against the fabric, echoes of how it used to be when Tony still had the arc reactor with him.

Back at Clint's farm, he had caught himself expecting to see it. It was different in the Tower, where familiarity and routine had a way to make change easy to embrace. He thought about it from time to time, but with all the lights that dotted New York's skyline vying for attention, it tended to slip from his mind. Besides, Tony seemed happier without the arc reactor and Steve was happy for him.

But out there in the countryside, with little in the way of lighting beyond the lamps on the porch, the difference had been striking. He had found it strange not to see a circle of blue light gleaming underneath Tony's clothes come nightfall.

Of course, it wasn't the kind of thing you brought up. He wouldn't have known how to put it into words, anyhow, at least not in a way that didn't sound like _I don't know, Tony, I just miss all that shrapnel you used to have lodged in your chest._

Still, he could have tried. It would have been a welcome respite from thinking about the world teetering on the brink yet again, from the face-off they had earlier that day while they were outside chopping wood, from what had led Tony to do what he had done and from what Steve had seen, the things he couldn't even say he had lost because they were never his to begin with.

Steve had experienced firsthand what Wanda's powers were capable of. He knew that getting your mind toyed with could mess you up inside, so why didn't he speak up? And he could have said something afterwards, at the very least, but well, they had saved the world together, hadn't they? It didn't seem like words were needed.

It had been a little bit like that after New York too. The regret had made Steve's throat feel tight, but Tony had eventually found a way back to them. He had opened his eyes and breathed again, he had even made jokes, and in the end they had just shaken hands and put everything behind them. It felt like it was enough at the time.

Besides, Tony could read between the lines, right? He was brilliant. There was no need to straighten it all out, no matter how many things had gone unsaid between them since the very beginning. They could sweep it all under the rug and build upon shaky foundations, a house made of cards that came tumbling down the first time it was truly tested.

They should have talked in earnest about the Accords. They should have talked it all out before everything got out of control. Tony was right, Steve should have told him so many things. If he had died, he would have never found out a single one of them, and Steve wonders whether it isn't too late to start now. Maybe. Maybe not.

He takes a breath, clenches and unclenches his hand, and says, "It wasn't your fault."

After a beat, Tony says, "What, getting a note that said _Shoot me_ stuck to my back?"

"No, not that. Ultron. It wasn't your fault, Tony. It didn't come from you," Steve says, and as he does, Tony's breath seems to catch. It really is only a faint little sound, but it still rings loud in Steve's ears. "Tony?"

"I heard you," Tony says, and there's a pause before he adds, "Good God, you must be high. I didn't think it was possible. FRIDAY, didn't you just say everything was in order? What's going on here, pray tell?"

"What? I'm most definitely not—"

" _Nothing's wrong with Captain Rogers, boss,_ " FRIDAY confirms.

"Thank you, FRIDAY. God, I can't believe—" Steve says under his breath, and that does it. There's no way that man is leaving until he listens to what Steve has to say. "All of us saw things. I saw what could have been, what I could have had, and then it was gone. Peggy, somewhere to come home to, it all felt real. What you saw must have felt real for you too."

Tony doesn't interject this time, so Steve carries on. "Thinking you could harness all that power was a mistake, but—"

"Now, _that_ sounds more like you," Tony says, his tone dry. "I was beginning to get worried."

"Christ, Tony, shut up for five seconds and let me finish! You wouldn't have done what you did unprompted. You didn't unleash Ultron upon the world. I'm sorry if I made you feel like you did, but how could you have? Your creations are something else entirely. I mean, just look at Vision. If it hadn't been for JARVIS' programming, we wouldn't have stood a chance. And I," Steve starts, not knowing how Tony will take what he's about to say, "I miss him. FRIDAY is a great gal, indeed. But I just miss JARVIS sometimes. He was kind, he had a way to make you feel looked after, and if I miss him, I can't even imagine what it must be like for—"

"Stop right there," Tony says in a small, weak voice. "Let's _seriously_ not do this right now."

Steve complies, even if his chest feels heavy. He just went and ruined things again, didn't he? He waits for a sign that it wasn't like that, but nothing comes, only silence. 

It's the small hours of the day and there's no bustle outside. It's so quiet, in fact, that when Tony whispers "J was pretty amazing, wasn't he?" Steve hears him clearly.

"Yes," Steve says, and he smiles for him, even if Tony can't see it. "Yes, he was."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _While Tony isn't the sole reason why he's changed his mind, it's hard to miss how everything seems to be about him, how the thought of him is behind every detail, every line._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The slow burn stops being as slow, but they still have a long way to go, methinks.

The wind picks up as soon as he and Natasha reach the helipad. The clouds seem to be moving faster as well, a few chasing after dozens of others in quick succession, and bursting with momentum, Steve feels like every second he spends here is a second wasted. He should have set out for the compound much earlier, and he would have, really, but they insisted he should stay put for a little longer, so he did.

 _Give yourself some time to heal. You don't want them breathing down your neck too soon,_ Natasha had said, looking through the window from the exact same spot where Tony had stood before.

 _Says who,_ Steve said, because he could take it, the whole dragging himself back to Capitol Hill in a wheelchair if that's what it took, saying yes when they asked him whether he would sign the Accords, just finishing what he came here for. He was ready to yank all the tubes at once and take his leave. He had made a decision. It couldn't wait.

_Says Tony._

Steve breathed out, deflating. _Fine._

Natasha smiled. _Just like that?_

 _Yes,_ he said, even if he was itching to get out of there.

In theory, nothing warrants the urgency. He's supposed to take it easy even now he's been discharged, but the sooner he gets back, the sooner he can get the ball rolling. The hearing's been delayed, after all, and with any and all missions currently out of the question, both because of the legal limbo he's in and the sling he's wearing, there isn't a lot of things he can do. What he can do, however, is to work on a statement explaining his change of heart while pointing out the misgivings he still has, let Tony know and—

Let Tony know, as if that were the key that will magically make everything better. And it's not. He's keenly aware that it's not, and for all he knows Tony will want to punch him square in the jaw, because if Steve was going to sign anyway, why did he have to drag them through hell and high water first?

He imagines those words on Tony's lips, he hears Tony's voice, he sees Tony's eyes. He's never going to forget the look on his face when he asked Steve if he knew. The betrayal, the grief distorting his features, the way the sheen in his eyes made Steve's own eyes sting. It was like stepping outside of his body, to look at Tony and know, but not grasp, that all that pain was because of something Steve had done.

It gets a little harder to breathe. He could blame his injury and not dwell on it, but he would still have to explain the knot in his stomach whenever he thinks of how easily things could get worse between them, a hundred steps back after a single step forward. It's the right thing to do, nonetheless, to tell Tony before he tells anyone else. They can't afford more secrets, not ever again.

Natasha nudges him towards the chopper. "Your carriage awaits."

"You'll fly it?"

"FRIDAY could have given us a ride, but it's more fun this way," she says, taking the controls. "Almost like old times, huh? Only it's not a car that we're borrowing."

"Borrowing," Steve repeats with a frown. "Tony knows we—"

"Of course he knows, Steve. It's Tony," she says like it's obvious. And it is, isn't it? Even if Steve hasn't seen him since that night, it's almost as if he had been there the whole time, present in every exchange he had with the others. _Tony says, Tony thinks, Tony knows._ "All buckled up now?"

"Yeah."

He expects an uneventful flight, but not even five minutes go by before Natasha looks at him and says, "I have a question for you."

"Oh boy," Steve mouths. If it was about anything important, she would have cut straight to the chase, which can only mean one thing. She wants to talk about something he doesn't.

"And don't try to jump this time, okay? We just got you back from the hospital," she says with a chuckle.

Below them, everything is growing smaller by the minute, so no, he doesn't feel the compulsion to jump. There's no safe place to land, anyway. "Is this about Sharon?"

"Yes and no," Natasha says. "Sometimes things don't work out, I get it. It happens to everybody. I'm just worried that you're letting things go before you even find out, and if that's how it is—"

"Relationships aren't a must," he cuts in.

"No, they aren't. But in your case . . ." Natasha says, letting the phrase linger while the corners of her lips curl upwards. Steve gives her a look, but it does little to deter her. "Maybe if you tried the kind of things your average Joe does, you wouldn't feel so, I don't know, disconnected from everything."

"I don't feel _disconnected,_ " Steve says, trying to sound relaxed despite the fact that his jaw is starting to lock. "I'm just busy."

"Who isn't? Look, sometimes you just have to make room for things, Steve. There's simply no other way," Natasha says, cocking her head to the side. "And I wonder what will it take for you to get that. What or who."

"Well, I don't have time for any of that. I have many things in mind," he says, hoping that puts an end to it.

"Yeah, of that I have no doubt," Natasha says. "Like Tony, right?"

He turns to look at her. "Is he home?"

"Yes, he is."

"Okay, that's good to know," Steve says, outlining the patch of sunlight that's landing on his knee. It's warmth that he can pick up with his fingertips, warmth that he can keep. "So, what was that question. I don't think you even asked anything."

"Never mind," Natasha says with a little smile. "I think I got my answer."

 

 

He runs into Tony almost as soon as he's back at the compound. It's not intentional—there's this little twitch of Tony's head, lips parted and wrinkles on his brow that make him look like he's been caught off guard. There's something else too, and before Steve can try to figure out what it is, it's gone. The only thing that's left is Tony narrowing his eyes slightly, almost looking at him askance. 

Steve sighs and doesn't say—

_I fell asleep back then and didn't see you leave._

_You didn't return after that day._

_How have you been?_

He just says, "Tony."

"Captain." The word seems to roll off his tongue with ease. "I see you're doing better," Tony adds nonchalantly while he's looking at his phone.

 _Don't look away, Tony, please._ "Yes."

"Well, that's good. Still, take it easy, Cap," Tony says as he walks past him, and even if he means what he says, and Steve thinks he does, his voice sounds flat, so dispassionate that it makes Steve's stomach twist. He doesn't tear his eyes away from Tony until he turns around the corner, and only then does Steve ball his right hand into a fist.

"All right, what did I do? Something's off."

" _Well,_ " FRIDAY says.

"I meant in addition to everything, FRIDAY."

" _In that case I got nothing._ "

"Okay, fine. It's not that I thought— Okay. If anyone needs me, they know where to find me," Steve says.

Once inside his room, he lets himself fall on a chair and stares at the wall. What was that? God, what _was_ that? Last time it seemed like they were on their way to somewhere better, and perhaps better is a stretch of the word, but things were less worse than they had been when Steve first came back. Now they're just awkward.

Sure, for anyone who wasn't paying close attention, Tony was perfectly civil, restrained to a fault, but he's not like that. Restraint and Tony don't go together unless there's a very good damn reason, such as keeping the team safe. Tony wears his heart on his sleeve otherwise, emotions bubbling an inch below the surface even when he thinks he's succeeded in bottling them all up. But whatever this was, it wasn't him. He sounded like he didn't even care that Steve was there, and while Tony doesn't owe him that, what on Earth happened for him to do a 180 degree turn?

He's allowed to change his mind, of course. He can decide that Steve has brought him way too much heartache to warrant more of his attention. But what he can't stand is the whole act, the pretense that everything is fine when it isn't. If Tony's through with him, if these few days apart helped Tony realize there was nothing to salvage between them, then he could at least give Steve a heads up so that he knows he has to keep away and—

Steve lets out a shuddering breath and cradles his left arm, sling and all. It really had seemed like things were getting a little bit better.

He allows himself a moment before he picks himself up and pulls a single sheet of paper from one of the drawers. Writing down his thoughts should be hard when his mind is so many miles away that he can barely believe he's home, but it isn't all that difficult, not really. If the words flow, it's because he knows exactly what he wants to say. He's been thinking about it ever since Sharon asked him whether he would sign or not, and then honing each sentence while he waited for each morning to come.

"FRIDAY? Tony, he— He's in his lab?"

" _Yes. Should I pass on a message?_ "

"No, I just wanted to know. I heard he's been there a lot, whenever he wasn't dealing with everything else, so I guess I just wanted—" He doesn't finish the sentence. Does it even matter what he wants if Tony wants the opposite? "No, nothing."

" _It looks like you're writing a letter,_ " FRIDAY says. " _Really?_ "

"It's not," Steve says, hunching over his desk like a schoolboy who doesn't want anyone to look at his test. "It's something else."

" _But if you were._ "

"Yes, I could use your help if I were," he says, pressing the tips of his fingers against his own handwriting.

Perhaps it does read like a letter, somehow. 

While Tony isn't the sole reason why he's changed his mind, it's hard to miss how everything seems to be about him, how the thought of him is behind every detail, every line. Steve talks about checks and balances, about warnings and safeguards against power for the sake of power, and the necessity of space for dissent, but he also mentions cooperation, boundaries, accountability. It's the best of both worlds, and if only things had been this easy from the very beginning, they wouldn't have ended up where they did.

"FRIDAY, my passcode, the code I had, I mean, does that still work or has it been—?"

" _Yes, it still works._ "

"Oh," he says very quietly. "Did he forget to change it?"

" _He hasn't mentioned anything about it._ "

"I see," he says, still cautious. He's trying his best not to get his hopes up, but it's not an easy task. Because Tony would have remembered to lock him out after last time, right? If that's what he wanted. If he had decided he didn't want to have Steve near, the first thing on his list would have been to revoke his access to the lab, and he hasn't, so.

Perhaps it's convenient this way. He knows Tony doesn't need him, but it's useful to have Steve around just in case, maybe. It's a little cold, and deep down Steve doubts Tony would think in those terms—Tony _wouldn't_ —but if he did, he wouldn't be wrong. Steve's good at dealing with problems whenever he isn't causing them.

And that's exactly it, isn't it? He makes Tony's life harder than it should be. After Steve left, Tony had to bear all the weight of the Accords on his shoulders, and as if that wasn't enough, he put him in danger twice, not only by making him a target but by scaring the hell out of him.

 _That's how it's supposed to feel, like you're going to die,_ Sam had explained to him. _You aren't actually dying, but that's how it works. Your heart's putting the pedal to the metal, right? You're there, feeling like you're running out of air and— You sure you want to talk about this now? You said you wanted me to give it to you straight, but you're gonna break that bed rail if you grip it any harder._

 _Oh._ Steve looked down at his hand and let go at once. _And yes, I'm sure. It's not the same thing, but I used to have asthma. Feeling like you can't breathe isn't nice. At all. But when I think of him going through something like that, I just— I'm worried about him._

 _So you are,_ Sam said with a little smile. _Do you have any idea if that was the first time?_

 _He kept saying it wasn't his heart,_ Steve said, and before he realized it, his fingers had begun drawing a circle in the middle of his chest. He remembered all too well how it had been like after Tony woke up from that nightmare, the way he had trembled in his arms. No, that couldn't have been the first time.

_Okay, if you bring it up, be tactful. Also, expect him to be defensive about it even if you are._

_It's me, Sam,_ Steve said softly. _Of course he's going to be defensive about it._

On one hand, Steve knows it isn't his place to say anything. On the other hand, he can't let things lie. It doesn't matter if Tony doesn't talk to him again over this, not even to say pleasantries. It doesn't matter if he— 

Except that it _does_ matter. It matters so much that Steve doesn't know whether he could stand it.

 _Maybe start slow,_ Sam had said, and well, that's a thought.

"FRIDAY?"

" _Yes, Captain Rogers?_ "

Steve folds the sheet of paper into three equal parts, then down the middle, and tucks it in his pocket. "Is Rhodes home?"

 

 

"Hey." Rhodes waves at Steve, then gestures for him to take a seat. "You wanted to talk about Tony."

"I, well, yes," Steve says, placing his tray on the table. "Yes, but first things first. How are you doing?"

"You beat me to it," Rhodes says, eyeing his sling. 

"Ah, that." Steve gives him a one-shoulder shrug. "I'm fine."

Rhodes nods and looks outside. The silhouette of the forest is framed by the windows, clouds hanging so low, it almost seems like they are brushing the top of the trees. It's a peaceful corner to have lunch and talk undisturbed.

"I won't lie to you and say that there aren't days when it gets hard. But for the most part, I feel like I got lucky. I could have easily not _walked_ away from that," Rhodes says with a smile, and it sounds like he's joking, it's warm, and Steve's so glad that Tony has him, that even when he no longer had the team with him, he still had Rhodes.

Steve looks down. "I'm really—"

"You said you were sorry before, Steve. If that's what you were going to say, _don't,_ " Rhodes says, sounding every bit like an officer of his rank. Steve keeps his mouth shut. "Now, I did get mad at you, but not over this. You know why."

"Yes, I do."

"God, I wanted to kick your ass. He really didn't deserve that," Rhodes says, and Steve can't even begin to imagine how it must have been to see Tony fresh from what happened in Siberia, to have to see him hurting and not being able to do anything about it. Or rather, he can imagine it, and the thought makes his chest feel tight.

"I know he didn't deserve that. I know I was an asshole. I—"

"You went and took a bullet for him," Rhodes says, raising his eyebrows. "I don't know how you do it, but you two are constantly defying expectations."

"Tony, he, after the shooting, he had a panic attack," Steve whispers, and after seeing the look on Rhodes' face, "You don't look surprised."

"No," Rhodes says with a sigh. "No, I'm not."

"Do you know if he's doing something about it? If someone's helping him with that, if he's getting the care he needs, or may need, I don't know. You, of course, don't have to tell me that. It's not any of my business, not after what went down between us. Tony would say that and he would be right."

"But it is, isn't it? Your business. You're worried about him," Rhodes says with a knowing look. 

Steve sighs. Deeply, which is a little embarrassing. He didn't mean to sound like he was coming apart just now, even if he is, just a little. But Rhodes doesn't comment on it, he just smiles at him before he takes a deep breath.

"Pepper and I talked to him about it back then. But Tony can be—"

"Stubborn?" Steve offers, and before Rhodes can say anything about that, "That's something coming from me, I know."

Rhodes lets out a chuckle. "Well, yeah, stubborn. It's half that, half so many things. I know you were friends with Howard, but you have to know he wasn't a good father. I'm not saying he had zero redeeming qualities because, well, things are rarely black and white. What I'm saying is that the guy you knew and the guy Tony had as a father weren't the same person."

"I understand," Steve says in a small voice, because he remembers Tony tensing up whenever Howard came up in their conversations, and he can't believe he never dwelled on that long enough to see that things were worse than he had thought. 

And looking back, it wasn't fair, was it? All those times Steve had passed judgment about Tony's past without stopping to think that it was Howard who had left him that legacy, a legacy that Tony rejected, and that Steve, nostalgic about all the things he had once known, hadn't cared to examine from up close.

"I can't tell you if he considered professional help or not, or if he got it and it didn't work. But I take it that you've heard about BARF."

Steve nods.

"You see, Tony knows he's not fine. He wants to get better. Maybe work with that."

"Work with that, me? No, I don't think I'm the right person. If I had my doubts before, now I know for sure I'm not. Not to mention that he'll tell me to go to hell if I do, and he gets to do that, of course. But I don't want to back him into a corner. I don't want him to feel unsafe."

"Listen, what Tony needs is people who care about him, who stand by him, who don't leave him alone," Rhodes says, looking at him in the eye. "Are you back being one of those people?"

"I— Yes."

"Boom, there you go."

"I don't think it's that simple," Steve says, crumpling a napkin into oblivion. "We're not in good terms, not really. I thought we were doing better, but earlier he acted like everything's fine, like everything's normal, when I know for a fact that it's not, and it was off-putting. Maybe, I don't know, maybe he gave up, somehow. Maybe he decided it wasn't worth the effort, that I—"

Rhodes smiles and shakes his head at the same time. "I don't think so."

"No, you don't understand. Tony sounded like he had checked out."

"Trust me, that's not what's happening. I wish I could tell you what's going on, I really do. God knows it might make things easier, but it's better if you two figure this one out all on your own. You're big boys. You've got this."

"If you say so," Steve says, still not convinced. He begins working on the cap of his water bottle next, but it proves tricky to do it with one hand.

Rhodes ends up opening it for him. "I need your word that I'm not going to have to worry about this again, Steve."

"You have my word," Steve says at once. "I don't intend to make you want to kick my ass again."

Rhodes laughs at that. "Good."

 

 

" _Captain Rogers is here, boss,_ " FRIDAY says, ruining his focus and making his heart rate spike in one fell swoop. He takes a quick look over his shoulder, confirms that the glass walls aren't in see-through mode, and only then does he relax.

"Didn't he have a code or something? I don't think we got rid of that one," Tony says, taking a step back to see the forest instead of the layers of trees he's been working on for the past few hours. Feeling pleased with the results, he spreads his arms and zooms in to take another look at the engine, all the while FRIDAY says something. "What's that? Did he have one or not?"

" _Yes, as I told you ten minutes ago, he still has access. I guess he would prefer it if you let him in._ "

"Ten? How did that even come to— Uh, I take it that he left already?"

" _No, he's still there._ "

"Oh shit. Well, that doesn't look good, does it." If he's to assume the part of someone who's more or less polite, yet largely uninterested, then making Steve wait is a bad idea. It could be read as petty, personal, and under no circumstance must he look like he has a stake in this.

In fact, the more impersonal, the better. The less approachable Tony seems, the less Steve will attempt to reach out and talk to him, which means, in turn, that he'll be safe from this stupid fake crush he's harboring. That he's _not_ harboring. That he's going to douse in gasoline, kill with fire, and then blow to smithereens.

"Well, let's let him in, then," Tony says, and then he makes the schematics cover the whole lab, filling each nook and cranny until the lines are cutting into walls, so that when Steve steps inside, he gets the hint that Tony's busy, which, hey, he actually is.

"Oh, wow. I'm interrupting," Steve whispers as soon as he enters the lab.

And yes, that's perfect. It's the exact sentiment Tony was going for. He could complement that, for instance, with something like _Yes, you're being a nuisance, so if you could go back from whence you came, that would be ideal, thanks._

But he doesn't say anything.

Instead, he risks a glance. It turns out to be stupid of him to do that, because Steve is currently surrounded by streams of blue light that bring out his eyes and make Tony feel funny. Not only that, he looks awed, as if this were the first and not the nth time he's seeing something like this. 

He looked like this sometimes, especially in the beginning. The 21st century must have seemed like it still had something to offer back then, a world filled with small wonders, the future. There was something childlike about him then, curious, spirited, tireless, as if he had never stopped being that kid who bit off more than he could chew and got in trouble for that.

Tony had never met him before the serum, of course, but he had imagined him so many times that it almost seemed like something lived—vivid, warm, something to keep close. Every time his dad gave him hell for being less than and weak, Tony would have that kid in mind. He would remember that not being strong wasn't a sin, that doing your best was quite enough.

That was something he once had thought about Steve Rogers.

He had been dead wrong, though. Face to face with the actual, very real Captain America, Tony had ended up falling into the same old patterns of feeling inadequate and not measuring up. And it's funny, isn't it? To think that his dad had the last word.

So reality is seldom as good as anything you build up in your imagination, what else is new? The fact that he had been duped into believing the world about the good ol' Captain was all Tony's fault, anyway, _like everything,_ and yet—

And yet, in fairness to Steve, he wasn't always a holier-than-thou ass. He believed in people, saw their potential, thought they could change for the better. That he had never extended the same courtesy to Tony didn't mean he hadn't in him to be compassionate. It only meant that Tony was the only one who didn't deserve it.

It's old news, that, nothing he didn't already know. It should be scar tissue by now and not this dull ache that comes alive every other time he looks at Steve.

So maybe this is more than a crush.

So maybe he's more than a little screwed.

"So, what brings you here, Captain?"

"I wanted to talk with you," Steve says.

Facing away from him, Tony makes a face. _Of course you do, Captain Obvious. I doubt you came here for the view._ "Well? I'm all ears."

"Yes, I—"

Tony raises an eyebrow at that. It's the less eloquent he remembers Steve being since, well, ever. If there's something Tony's clear about, it's the fact that Steve isn't in the habit of sparing words to tell you exactly what he thinks, whether you want to hear it or not. 

"Cat got your tongue?" he asks as casually as possible, and since that doesn't get him an answer either, he turns round. Steve is holding out a piece of paper for him to take, apparently, and that's the exact moment when Tony's carefully curated image goes down the toilet. "I swear to God, Rogers, if that's another letter, it better be for someone else. I don't like being handed things, so you're out of luck here."

"Oh," Steve says, thoughtful. "No, it's not a letter. It's—"

"It's what?" Tony says, eyebrows shot high.

He puts the paper back in his pocket, and by now Tony's sure it was a goddamn letter, come on. "There's something else I want to talk to you about first. Ask, really. I want to know how you're doing," Steve says, and he looks so earnest that it almost makes Tony sick, that's how earnest he looks.

Tony blinks. "I'm fine."

" _No._ " He's balling a fist at his side, and Tony wants to taunt him and ask whether he should be scared, except that Steve looks genuinely upset over this. It boggles the mind. "No, that's what you always say and it drives me— Back at the hospital you looked like you were having a heart attack, for God's sake, and even then you _said_ you were fine."

"Because I was," Tony says, and it's ridiculous that he has to defend himself even when it comes to something that only concerns him. "Obviously. You saw me drag myself to your room with an oxygen tank or something? No, because _nothing_ was the matter."

"Tony, I'm _worried_ about you," Steve says, eyes hard and jaw set, and that's terrific. That's the kind of thing Tony loves to hear, especially when it sounds like making people worry about him is another moral failure of his.

"Oh, don't give me that!" Tony says, and his face feels like it's on fire. "What you're worried about is the idea of me fucking things up again, isn't it? That I'll freak out in the middle of a—"

Steve looks taken aback. "What? No, Tony—"

"Yeah, just in the middle of a fucking mission. That I'll put everything and everyone at risk—"

"That's not it! It's that," Steve says, toning down the volume of his voice until it almost sounds gentle. "It's that I don't think you're as fine as you say you are."

"Because you're _so_ well-adjusted! As if you didn't fold into yourself with nostalgia over every fucking little thing," he says, and while none of that is untrue, it sounds harsher out loud.

"This isn't about that, Tony. I just want you to be—"

"As if your inability to move the fuck on hadn't cost us so much already! How is this not about that? How is this whole mess you got us into not about that?" Tony says, because now there's no way to turn this off, because he's an asshole like that.

Case in point, Steve's looking at him as if Tony had just killed a pet of his, for fuck's sake. "Tony—"

"You have no idea—you seriously have no fucking clue how many times I've gone through everything, every happening, every step, every inconsequential little detail. Butterflies flapping their wings," he says, and each word sounds off-key as if he were trying his best not to drown in laughter. "I've been racking my brain, just wondering what I could have done differently so that things didn't explode in our faces like they did. If you had let us handle Barnes, if you had trusted us to do the job—"

"It wasn't a matter of trust. I didn't want any of you to get hurt over something that was my problem."

"That's where you're wrong again. It wasn't your fucking problem! It was everybody's problem, but here you are, still thinking you don't fit in, that you're all on your own. I'm sorry you're stuck here, but there's fuck all I can do!" Tony says, and now he sounds like he's breaking, god-fucking-dammit. "Believe me, I would send you back where you belong if I could, where you would actually have a chance to be _happy._ "

"You would send me back," Steve repeats weakly, shaking his head as if he didn't believe it. "But I want to be here. And I want you to be fine."

"You would do good by not lying to yourself," Tony says, retreating deeper into the lab. "You would also do good by minding your own business."

"You _are_ my business, Tony. And you also keep thinking that you're on your own—"

Tony turns and looks at him sideways. "Boy, I wonder from where I got that idea. You tell me, am I wrong to think that? I think you made it very clear before."

Steve flinches. He flinches hard, but instead of taking his leave, he comes closer. "It still doesn't change it. What happened, what I did, none of it changes the fact I worry about you. You could send me back and not even that would make a difference."

"Knock it off, Rogers."

"I care about you," Steve whispers. God, he's within arm's reach now, and Tony wishes he could tell him to his face how fucking callous of him is to do this, to say things like that as if they were something real, something he wouldn't lie about.

"You know what's wrong with that picture? It's that it's easier to think you never gave a damn about me. It's just easier," Tony says with a shrug. "Because if you care and you still went and did what you did, where does that leave me? Am I supposed to think it comes with the package, caring about me and not being able to resist screwing me over later? How the _fuck_ do I keep myself safe if that's the case? Did you ever think about that?"

"Tony," Steve says, holding his elbow, and it's stupid that it should take so little to upend his world, but there you go.

"Let it be, I'm warning you. Whatever you're trying to do, stop it. Now."

Steve shakes his head. "I just can't."

"I warned you. I fucking warned you. Don't say I didn't," Tony says, and he must have lost his mind, except that he sees everything with outstanding precision, each step lined up all the way to the outcome, and he still grabs Steve's shirt, and for all his super soldier strength, it's child's play to pull him closer. To kiss Steve Rogers is easy as pie.

And it's—God, it's so warm. There's no trace of the cold that clung to Steve's skin like a bad omen, like the preview of a future Tony would outright die to prevent. He's alive and well, and he tastes like warmth, and Tony's a fucking idiot for thinking he could stay away and—and those are Steve's lips now, moving along his on their own accord.

It's classical mechanics, an equal and opposite reaction for every action. That's the first thing that flashes through Tony's mind. _He must feel fucking lonely to sink this low and kiss me back_ is the second, and the third is that Steve has lost it, clearly, which leaves him no alternative but nipping this in the bud.

Instead of pushing him away, he minds Steve's injury and pulls back, then waits for Steve to turn his nose into a bloody mess, except it never comes. Steve just looks at him, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, and if only Tony wasn't feeling like he just pointed a gun at his chest and pulled the trigger, the petty side of him would be delighted to see him look less than unflappable for once.

As always, countermeasures are ready. If he spins it good, Steve won't ever have to learn that there was something in it for Tony. If he does this right, it won't look like he just bared his heart. "There," Tony says with all the cheekiness he can muster and his head held high, "now you have a reason to stay away, so let's see if you finally stop bothering me so much."

 

 

Steve hears what Tony is saying. His heart is pumping like a wild thing trapped inside his chest, but he still has the presence of mind to register every single word that comes out of Tony's mouth, not that it helps any. None of it makes a lick of sense and Steve is tired, adrift, aching with absence.

It was here and then it was gone, that's all he knows, and he's sick of having things dangled in front of him only to see them vanish, he's fed up with losing what he didn't even suspect he could have, he's had his fill with the way Tony keeps saying one thing while it looks like he means another. _Like hell I'm staying away,_ Steve thinks, because he's going to find out what's what and he's going to do it now.

He wraps an arm around Tony's waist. The sling gets caught between their ribs, and although he doesn't know whether holding onto him is enough to get him to stay, it's all Steve can do. "Please," he whispers against Tony's lips, and it feels like a prayer. _There's no other place for me. Where else am I supposed to go?_

Tony doesn't try to pull back this time, thank God. This is the closer he's ever had him, that he'll ever have him, if he's honest with himself. He knows that few things remain, that there's little he gets to keep no matter what time he's in, but he doesn't want to think about any of that. This is now, and he can live here for as long as this moment lasts.

His fingers trace a path up Tony's back and count the little bumps of his spine along the way, there where the armor would dip to fit tight around his body. Without sheets of metal sheltering all of him, Tony feels real, a tangible presence instead of a figment of the imagination, and at long last, here's where Steve finds all the thoughts he has kept under wraps for years.

They're lit with a spark, the studies he made of sculptures and sky-high frescoes, the details that made him stand stock-still in awe and that he would later reproduce from memory, pencil loose between bony fingers—strong profiles, imposing figures, all the things he lacked, weak and small as he was.

He would fold a dozen drawings and store them carefully in a rusty tin box he placed under his bed, where they remained hidden. They revealed too much and meant much more, and even if art granted him the freedom to observe all things beautiful in ways that wouldn't go against social mores, this was yet another thing that made him different, that he appreciated beauty in things that others did not, should not.

It was better, Steve told himself sometimes, to admire instead of begrudging the qualities he lacked, the way in which other bodies, not held back by illness, excelled in fields that were out of his reach. Everything else, he tended to ignore. It was women that he found himself drawn to. He loved their gentleness and their resilience, the soft curve of their eyebrows and their laughter. He had fallen deeply for women even when it was unrequited, and after he met Peggy, strong-willed and lovely, he had imagined growing old next to her.

But there was another side to him too, and he should have seen it for what it was before. The wonder that it was to watch Tony create whole worlds out of nothing, the prickling in his belly every time he tried his patience, the warmth nestling in his chest whenever he smiled like he could light up a whole room, the way Tony could fill pages and pages of his sketchbooks and every corner of his mind. 

It had been there all along, weathering neglect and the way he had tried, again and again, to make everything fit into tidy little boxes that had no room for all of what he felt. He wanted him. It made him want to smile in turn, that he wanted him and it wasn't shameful, that it felt right and of the utmost importance, something he couldn't afford to lose. _Please._

They bump into things. Something comes crashing down but they hardly pay attention. Isn't this how it goes? To not have eyes for anything else. 

Somehow, they run out of space. There's a couch that wasn't here before, an improvement from the makeshift bed he saw last time, and he imagines Tony sleeping here instead of going back to his room, surrounded by machine parts and blueprints drawn in light instead of ink, the elements of his craft.

The cushions soften his fall. Tony is on top of him, warm and yielding, and the pressure builds up within his chest—a rush of blood, an impulse to touch, a need to have all of him. Tony's fingers get caught in his hair. His mouth is hot on the corner of Steve's lips, his jaw, the muscles of his neck pulled straight, and all of a sudden he remembers.

It comes back with a clarity that stings, how it used to be seeing himself in front of a mirror, all the imperfections, the jutting bones, the small frame. How he would splay his fingers across his ribs and imagine someone else caressing him.

Impossible. 

That's how it had seemed at times, even after the serum, and perhaps all the more so after he became what he was now. It felt close to impossible that someone could touch him and take the time to reach out deep enough to find him, no mantle weighing him down like a yoke, no living legend, just Steve.

And now Tony is touching him. He's holding his nape, thumb brushing the pulse on his neck, and it feels like everything has changed. Tony has seen him at his worst and most flawed, yet he's kissing Steve as if he were worthy of this kind of attention, as if he deserved something as good as this and—

He can't see where this is leading them. He can't tell whether this is yet another beginning, and this is true about them, they're always starting anew. What they mean to one another is always shifting, now for better, now for worse, and he has no way to know whether this is how they end instead. It chokes him, the idea that this might be them going off all over again, that nothing might remain after the blast. "Tony," Steve gasps, fingers pressed tight around Tony's shoulder. "Tony, wait."

Tony winces, pulls back to look at him, breathing hard, and Steve already feels like speaking out was a mistake. One thousand mistakes, oh God, he's always making so many, and Tony is moving away now, and he can't leave, Steve can't let him go, if he leaves— "Wait, wait, Tony. Please, don't go."

He gets him to sit on the couch. Steve is holding his wrist as if he were a lifeline, and Tony looks tired enough to let him. He's not looking at Steve, but it doesn't matter. He's here. He's still here. 

Tony sighs and looks into the distance. "You’ve never been with a guy before?"

"I've never been with anyone," Steve blurts. "Like that. The way we were, I mean, where we were heading, if that's where we were heading, if—"

"Jesus fuck," Tony says under his breath and springs from his seat as if Steve had just caught fire.

"Why? Why, is _that_ a problem? Is it a problem that I—?" Steve says, and now his face does feel like it's burning, and he's being an idiot on top of that. If this is truly a problem, then it's the least of their problems, God.

" _No,_ " Tony says, looking angry, and Steve doesn't know if that's actually better at this point. "And let me lay it out for you in a way that goes through your thick skull, because this is how things should be fucking done, just telling it how it is to each other's faces instead of keeping mum. I'm still angry with you. I feel like I could power my fucking suit with sheer anger sometimes, but no matter how much of an asshole you can be, you still don't deserve—"

They fall silent after that. Steve hugs the sling to his body for comfort, and he doesn't dare to think that if Tony cares about the things he deserves, then perhaps, just maybe, that means—

He doesn't dare to think any of it out loud.

"Is that," Tony starts, making Steve look up even if it's just a hint of sound, "Is that the same arm that your friend, that Barnes—"

"Oh," Steve whispers, and it feels like something is squeezing his heart a little, hearing Tony like this, talking about this, about Bucky. "He was doing better than I would have in his place."

"Well, I came close to killing him. I guess that's something that tends to raise your spirits, finding yourself to be _not dead._ "

"But you didn't, in the end," Steve says softly. "You didn't kill him."

"Not for lack of trying. Now, _that_ would have been unforgivable, huh?" Tony says, tone flat and eyes bright, and Steve can't help himself.

"Tony. Tony," Steve says. He's cupping Tony's face in his palm, brushing his mouth against the curve of his lips, and he wishes he could make everything go away, all the things that Tony blames himself for, all the things that burden him.

"I can't do this now, Rogers," Tony says without looking at him. "You better leave."

Steve sighs and nods, he presses his forehead against Tony's for the briefest of moments, and then Tony slips out of his hold.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Steve can see his own handwriting against the light and remember the way each sentence goes, the turns of phrase that echo Tony's words and those of his own making; he can take a guess at how long it will take Tony to realize what he's reading. It won't be long, knowing him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I still don't know how a year managed to slip by without a single update. Here we go again, in any case.

The sun is setting, dipping everything in a warm glow that only feels skin-deep as far as he's concerned. Steve resists the urge to shudder. He's not supposed to be cold. 

It might have said so somewhere in his file, observation after observation compiled in a list far longer than his medical record ever was. _Unaffected by extreme weather conditions,_ perhaps, right below _fast metabolism_ and _increased strength._ It doesn't really matter. He's still huddled in on himself, seeking warmth that isn't there and at a loss of what to do.

Everything has changed between them. Nothing really has.

All that's left from Tony's touch is phantom pain, and although he knows that it's all in his mind, it doesn't make it less real. Siberia, too, had followed him all the way to Wakanda. It had lurked in the empty corridors of the palace and the long, quiet nights he spent wide awake. He felt it in his bones.

It's not that he didn't know the reason. He had missed Tony something fierce before—it was a constant along with the guilt, the homesickness, and the loneliness, but only now does the thought hit him full force. Steve is cold without him. It's the only thing that makes sense.

"It serves you right, Rogers," he mumbles, voice muffled against his chest. And so he fails to ask FRIDAY to crank up the heating for him as JARVIS used to do whenever he dreamed of ice. Instead, he pads to the bathroom and lets the bathtub fill with water, even if it feels wasteful to allow himself this kind of comfort.

Tony would have teased him about it, surely. _Don't be ridiculous, Cap. It's just hot water. Do you want a little luxury? Here,_ he might have said in another place, another time, just before he took it upon himself to add clusters of candlelight and let Steve choose from an assortment of fancy bath salts he couldn't have possibly known how to tell apart. Steve, in turn, would have wrapped his arms around Tony's waist. He would have breathed against his nape, hiding a smile, and asked if he didn't feel like joining him.

It's vivid enough that the longing burrows a hole through his chest, and he can't help the way that laughter bubbles in his throat and comes out harsh, bitter. Earlier, after he had returned from Tony's lab, heart still racing, he had asked himself if he was sure. It seemed important to know without a speck of doubt that it hadn't been a matter of getting caught in the moment, just something short-lived and nothing else, because even if Steve didn't stand a chance in hell with him, not being sure about Tony would have felt like another betrayal.

The question, of course, was laughable. All he can think about is him. Wanting Tony the way he does, with the intensity that he does, all at once, is uncharted territory. It's getting swept out to sea, an endless fall. But only the awareness is new. The rest of it has always been there somehow, growing slow and steady at times, fast enough to make his head spin at others, but always there.

It's the one thing that anchors him, the certainty that he isn't mistaken about this, that even if he's afraid, the opposite—not having Tony in his life at all—is even worse. The sole idea makes him feel hollow. Cold without him, hollow without him. It's not so different from how it used to be before he made his way back home. If anything, now that it has a name, it has only become stronger. It's the last piece of the puzzle falling into place.

It should be harder to accept this about himself. It would, perhaps, if he didn't remember how it felt to notice a myriad of details he should have remained oblivious to. Men in sharp suits, straight lines framing their shoulders, and in those donning working clothes, rolled sleeves revealing the curve of muscle meeting bone. A young man smiling at his sweetheart—crinkles around his eyes made softer with fondness, the breadth of his hand as it wrapped gently around the curve of her waist, and then the itch to draw, and draw, and draw.

Human bodies were beautiful. In motion, they were a wonder of mechanics, the pinnacle of creation. It didn't have to mean more than that, not even if he took notice of the play of light and shadow over bare skin as he waited in vain for the papers that would pronounce him fit to serve. His eyes didn't linger, _couldn't,_ but he kept everything in mind as a way to improve his craft. A library of finer points for future reference.

Taking careful notice of the peculiarities of others was a habit. They rarely returned the favor.

Oh, he had gotten looks after the serum. It had been dizzying but not unwelcome, a hint of warmth nestling in his chest. Even then, he had wanted so much more. He had wanted to be found, for someone to look at him as if he were something special, the way Peggy had.

The way Tony had looked at him sometimes. Before.

He's freezing. The steam rises to meet the tips of his fingers, but all that accomplishes is to tease a shiver out of him. He begins to shed his clothes next, each motion practical, automatic. Discarding his uniform after their fight had been like that too, no spark of recognition when he saw himself in the mirror. He had wanted the weight of the shield off his back and to be afforded the freedom of being himself, nothing larger than life clinging to him, just a kid from Brooklyn. But without the cowl he was still someone who had kept a secret he had no business keeping. It had almost destroyed them, not being able to find the words to tell Tony the truth.

His fingers prod at the area surrounding the wound. It barely, barely stings—the skin will soon be unbroken. Nothing will be left behind, not even the lightest of marks, and it feels wrong. He should be able to keep it with him. Everything about Tony should be branded into his skin the way it is into his mind. Siberia should have also been a scar, one as deep as the gash across the arc reactor had been, something indelible.

At last, he sinks into the water. It gives way, molding around his body, and for an instant it feels amazing. Steve rests his head against the edge of the tub, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, then another, letting the warmth seep into his bones, but the quiet doesn't last long. His mind begins to chip away at the darkness with efficiency, carving depth and color out of nothing, light earth tones for his skin, and for his eyes, a darker shade of brown, rich and full. It's vibrant enough to seem real. Tony in the flesh, close enough to touch.

His fingers skirt along his stomach.

He remembers the first time he wanted to draw Tony, that he felt the need rather than just the inclination. He had been out of the ice for less than a week, up and about trying to find something familiar with a dogged sort of hope that led him nowhere. He walked through streets he used to know like the back of his hand, tried to unearth glimpses of the past and hold on to them, but he came away empty-handed. Days before—it had only been days for him—he had a place in the world. Now he had nothing.

Back at his apartment, the pile of files he received from SHIELD were lying open, same as he had left them, and he hadn't wanted to look at them, to see each stamp loudly pronouncing that he had missed on and lost so much, that he'd been left behind. He had needed to focus on something else, on someone else. Someone with ties to the past but who wasn't a part of it.

The first few attempts had been a failure. The likeness was passable, not perfect. The pencil lines resembled Tony Stark well enough, but they hadn't captured his essence. Steve had tried to reconcile the man Tony seemed to be with the man who donned the armor, with the idea of his survival being tied to that contraption in the middle of his chest, but even with all that information at his disposal, something didn't quite fit.

Steve claimed a spot in front of Grand Central the next day as if he were a man on a mission, and even though he swore up and down that he wasn't there to see Iron Man fly by, he ended up sketching Stark Tower all the same, all the soulless modernity of it, the latticework of glass and steel, and then the slant of the structure as it pointed towards the sky. It was clearly designed not to blend into the city skyline but to stand out, and this seemed more in line with what Steve thought he knew about Tony, the ostentation, the grandstanding. A bored billionaire playing hero.

If he had doubts about the accuracy of his assessment, well, he shook those off and told himself he didn't and couldn't expect much from the man, even if deep down he had wanted to be mistaken. There was a small part of him that had expected more than he should have from a stranger. Some semblance of familiarity, the sort of quiet understanding Howard and him had once shared during the war, a tether to the future.

The disappointment was swift. At first, Tony turned out to be every bit the man he read about, brilliant to a fault but brash and haughty in equal measure. Not only that, he had taken upon himself to prod Steve like someone would do with a lab rat, aiming jabs at him just to see if they hit the mark and hurt, just because he could. Naturally, he ended up being the focus of the pent-up anger Steve didn't even realize he had inside, all the smashed punching bags he left in his wake notwithstanding.

Steve regrets it now, the way they began. But back then, he had latched onto it as if it were the only thing that made sense in the world. Fighting back was all he had known since he was a young, scrawny thing looking for more trouble than he could handle, and Tony gave as good as he got, not backing down when others would have. Even now, he remembers Tony's eyes on him, dark and searching as he singled him out, the fire in them, and then the blood pounding in Steve's ears along with the thrill of the challenge, and oh God, he should have known.

_I'm starting to want you to make me._

The rush of heat coils in his belly, then spreads lower. His thumb ghosts his navel, fingernails digging into flesh. Underneath that pressure, his skin prickles. Tony had been so close back in the helicarrier. Any closer and he would have felt the heat coming off his body. He remembers the stretch of muscle under his leather gloves as he tried to keep Tony from leaving, and then the way he reached out for him once again after they got hit, his hand splayed against the small of Tony's back for the briefest of moments.

That's where his hands had gone while they kissed. Before he panicked, all Steve had wanted was to wrap his arms around Tony and keep him there, not to lose sight of him ever again. He thinks of the perfect fit of Tony's body against his own, and then of the warmth of his breath against Steve's skin. By the time he finally reaches out and strokes himself, the pressure inside him has only built up.

Everything seems sharper now, a patchwork of moments with Tony at the center of it all. It's remembering penciling all of Tony's quirks and gestures and complementing those memories with knowledge. In one way or another, Steve had been drawn to him from the moment they met.

More sketches had followed New York. Stills of the battle as it unfolded before his eyes. His fellow Avengers. Tony. Steve told himself that he wanted to understand how he could have been so wrong, to disentangle all the things he had felt upon seeing Tony disappear into that wormhole. Frustration, helplessness, regret. He remembers the sensation. Tight. His chest had felt so tight.

There had been room for fondness afterwards. A budding affection that colored all of their exchanges, at least on Steve's side. In time, it would get more complicated, back to basics. But in the meantime, he made quick sketches of him, figured out when it was easier to draw him—while he worked—and learned to capture each little detail. Steve hadn't thought that it was because he found him attractive, even if Tony was indeed a handsome fella, even if his smiles made Steve not want to look away.

He tenses up, increasing the tempo.

He wants to touch Tony again, to have all of his undivided attention. His skin is on fire where Tony touched him. He can feel his gaze even now, and how his hands, clever hands that create wonders, have reshaped the core of who Steve is. His toes touch the curve of the tub, bracing against the porcelain as he rides the wave of pleasure, and this should feel wrong, wrong because Tony hates him—

—doesn't hate him; it doesn't feel like he does, but it's obvious that he looks at Steve and remembers what he did, how badly he hurt him, and it's almost as bad. Maybe it's worse.

A part of him wants to let it all slip away, to deny himself every sliver of sensation, but he can't find it in him to stop. It's only friction now, fingers circling his shaft without finesse, no lover's touch, and then he's over the edge. He can feel everything at once, the want and the guilt and the yearning, and he comes with a full-body shudder, gasping for breath. He drifts for a moment, letting his surroundings come into focus little by little, and when he opens his eyes, the feeling is still there. The certainty of wanting him is razor-sharp, a jolt to the chest. It's getting thrown into the future and knowing without a doubt that it isn't a mirage, that there's no going back.

The difference is, this time he doesn't want to go back.

 

 

He gets rid of the schematics. His arms tense as he squeezes a vast array of lines in the narrow space between his hands, treating it like something boundless and uncontainable he just managed to hold back in time. It's an unnecessary display, only there for the satisfaction of squashing the light. Fiddling with sleek designs won't do, not right now. He needs something physical, a torch and a hammer, to bludgeon something into oblivion and feel the brunt of the impact making his arms tingle.

It doesn't take him long to find what he's looking for, a discarded prototype for what eventually became Mark 47's chest piece. At least he'd labeled it as such in his mind, even if its sole purpose was to serve as his second favorite punching bag after he got tired of using the shield.

As far as symbolism goes, it's about as subtle as a punch to the face. His fingers trace the marks left on the material, a lesser alloy he shaped to resemble the piece that protected his heart by way of heat and blows, and the knowledge that he needs this more than ever—the armor, the walls, the safety granted by distance—keeps his anger from burning out.

This time it's mostly aimed inwards, but it's still all-consuming. His teeth rattle each time the hammer connects with the metal, and he welcomes the pain and the way it spreads under his skin, outlining a path that goes from the tips of his fingers to the middle of his chest. "Richly deserved," he grits. "You had it coming, Stark."

Again, his calculations were worthless. It's the thing with him, he always thinks he can get away with it, to play with fire without burning himself because he's just _that_ smart, and he's wrong every time. Over and over, he's sure that everything is under control, fail-safes set in place from the get-go, but there's always something that escapes his notice, an unknown variable throwing everything into disarray.

_Please,_ Steve had said.

He'll have to come up with a theory that makes room for the way Steve held on to him, one that explains away why he keeps reaching out to Tony as if his forgiveness was something he needed to have at all costs. But for now he knows that whatever this was, it was an error, an outlier. It's got to be.

Droplets of sweat are running down his neck now, and he doesn't think about Steve kissing him back. He doesn't. He presses the heel of his hand against his chest to make the aching go away—except that it's not dull, it sears and leaves him breathless, it hurts like hell—and doesn't think of Steve's hands framing his waist and pulling him closer.

So Rogers' chronic inability to let go seems to have found another target. Great, just what Tony needed.

_He was the one who left, though. He chose to walk away and leave you behind like trash. Why the sudden change of heart?_

Each clang is deafening, but still not loud enough that he can't hear it whispering. The part of him that still carries an oozing wound like a badge of honor and refuses to let it heal. It suggests that Steve's actions are merely an attempt to curry favor, a plea not to lose what Tony has to offer. Shelter. Protection.

"That isn't who he is," Tony breathes. A meek protest. His own voice never even reaches his ears.

_Sure, you would know. You trusted him before and look where that trust led you._

His grip falters and the hammer comes crashing down. He can't do this anymore. He's exhausted, arms trembling with the exertion of having channeled all his anger into reshaping a mangled hunk of metal. He leans against the nearest wall and slides until he's sitting on the floor, and with his cheek pressed against the concrete, Tony lets himself think of him. Steve, who watched over his sleep and brushed his lips against his. Steve, who made him feel like a piece of shit.

It would be easy to believe one over the other and write off the rest. It's tempting. But the world is made of shades of gray, and Captain America, paragon of virtue, is only a myth. Steve is only human, imperfect. He's a good man who has his heart in the right place more often than not, as well as a stubborn bastard who tends to believe he's always right.

"Must have been hard to have the absolute certainty that you could do no wrong," Tony says, but the heat behind the words feels forced, "only to realize later that you fucked up big time."

He breathes in, then releases the air in shaky little gasps. Maybe that's what Steve can't live with, the knowledge that he failed the standards he set for himself. It's not about Tony. It can't be. It's about Steve's desperate attempt not to lose the sense of who he used to be. After all, keeping secrets is as good as lying, and Steve Rogers isn't supposed to be someone who lies.

_Five exams in five different cities,_ Tony remembers all of a sudden and he wants to laugh. A flicker of fondness comes unbidden then, but he lets it remain. For once, it doesn't sting, it merely warms.

Maybe it's about loss, about the fear of losing whatever it is that he missed hopping from place to place during his brief stint as Nomad, this semblance of a life that he half-built for himself in this era. And Steve has lost so much, oh God, it used to drive Tony crazy just to think about it, to really consider it in its full dimension. 

He had filled the workshop with dead-end equations and vague theories on time travel once, before he saw reason and stopped half-way. In his defense, he had been running on little sleep even for his standards, but for fuck's sake, there had even been fictional accounts lying open, buried behind files full of scribbled nonsense.

They made it look easy, but that wasn't the way the known universe operated. It was simply impossible to send Steve back in time. It was the one thing Tony couldn't afford to give him, not for lack of trying but for lack of means. Feeling frustrated, he had ended up getting the man those very same tales in print as well as other sci-fi classics, a colorful selection that Steve might have appreciated if only for the accompanying illustrations. In truth, he probably had thought that Tony was mocking him, even if he still had thanked him, the very image of good manners.

_I'm home,_ Steve had said with the same quiet resignation. He had been lying through his teeth.

The memory makes his heart ache all over again. Tony doesn't know if Steve had talked himself into believing it, even for a moment. The compound wasn't home then. Now it isn't home either. It's so little compared to what Steve used to have—friendship, love, a life—but it's what he has. And maybe he's afraid of losing it, even if it amounts to nothing of real value. Maybe he thinks he has to keep Tony to get to keep this too. Maybe Tony should tell him that's not the case, then. That regardless of what went down between them, he would always have a place to return to. That no matter how little Steve thinks of him, Tony would never be enough of a bastard to take that away from him, from any of them.

Tony would do anything for them. That's true even now. He would have died for any of them ungrateful brats. Of course that he would have—he loves them. Steve isn't the exception but the rule.

Hell, it had probably started from the time he was a little kid. Things had soured as he grew older, the result of a long one-sided discussion Steve had never been a part of. But he had learned to love him all over again, the way you love the annoying yet awe-inspiring older brother figure you could never live up to, the way you love the pain-in-the-ass kid brother you actually never had. It wasn't warranted. To feel this much affection for someone you couldn't even see eye to eye with.

It's different now. There's more at stake, if such a thing is possible. Tony isn't oblivious enough not to know when he's lost the battle for good.

Perhaps there was nothing he could have done about it. Perhaps it was only a matter of time. After all, he has almost always loved Steve in some way. He has loved him with the kind of fierce loyalty that made him want to sell his soul to keep him safe, and it hadn't mattered one bit because in the end, Tony's feelings didn't matter.

Tony didn't.

 

 

Since yesterday, Steve has had enough time to go through the many different ways this could play out between Tony and him. He only allowed himself to consider a single self-indulgent scenario, very briefly and without fanfare. It's a pipe dream. The rest of possibilities are grounded on reality, but he keeps this one close to his heart, soft like a whisper.

"And he's in the—" Steve starts.

" _His whereabouts haven't changed since the last time you asked,_ " FRIDAY says with what sounds like a muted tsk. 

His smile feels watery. He closes his hand until his nails dig into the flesh of his palm, then opens it. Rinse and repeat. If his statement wasn't tucked inside his pocket, it would probably be a crumpled mess by now. 

" _If it helps, he's not in a bad mood,_ " she adds, a little more gently.

"Thank you," Steve sighs, and the thought that follows hot on its trail is, _But for how long will he stay that way?_

When he turns around the corner, his heart is fluttering in his throat. The conference room Tony has been using as an office is visible, thin panes of glass encasing the furniture, all angular lines and minimal design. It gives the impression that there's nothing here that shouldn't be here, no unnecessary embellishments, nothing that isn't sleek and modern, which is why he does a double take at the thin stack of old files laid on the table. There are also holograms featuring technical reports and hints of blueprints, and then there's Tony, phone pressed to his ear while he paces around the room in a gray pinstripe suit that fits his body like a glove.

Steve can't not look. His jacket has been discarded over a chair and his cufflinks are nowhere to be seen, buttons undone, so every time Tony gesticulates while he speaks, Steve sees a stripe of the flesh of his wrist. Warmth pools on Steve's stomach then, and it suddenly becomes clear that this is going to be difficult in more ways than one.

Tony waves him in before he returns to his call. The door slides at once. Unlike his lab, it's impersonal here. Letting him in costs Tony nothing. No walls need to come down, no vulnerabilities are left exposed, and Steve relaxes slightly at the idea that Tony is more comfortable like this, that he isn't trespassing in any way.

"Go ahead, tell me what you've got," Tony says, still on the phone, one hand spread on a closed file. The tips of his nails are white—he's pressing the pads of his fingers against the yellowed paper peeking from one of the folders with all he's got, and Steve is bound to notice every detail now, to imagine Tony's hands holding onto his body just like this, leaving fleeting marks on Steve's skin as if he were loath to let him go.

Very quietly, Steve swallows. 

"So it should be a piece of cake, then," Tony says. There's a wry smile on his lips not intended for Steve's eyes, one that belies his words. Seeing him like this, it's easy to pretend that nothing has changed, that Steve has just returned from a mission overseas, only to find Tony already browsing through the report he sent him through JARVIS while also handling the Avengers' PR.

_Multitasking, Cap,_ he would have said with a smile.

It should feel peaceful, this kind of quiet hanging between them. Instead, Steve can only think of Berlin, of the way Tony looked as if he were on the verge of cracking under the weight of dealing with all the things Ross threw their way.

If Steve could turn back time, if he could go back to that moment, he would try to stop himself from walking out as he did. He would tell himself not to leave that way, not to leave Tony behind. It didn't have to be like that, even if they disagreed. Because now he remembers all of Tony's little gestures, all the details Steve was too angry to see the first time around, from his nervous little smile as he tried to reassure him that Wanda was safe and sound from the way his face fell just before Steve left.

And if his other self didn't listen—and he doesn't think he would have, simply because that Steve was younger, because that Steve had no way to _know_ —if he walked away just the same, Steve would have asked not for a do-over, but for time to stop. He would have held Tony in his arms then. He would have told him how badly he wished he had made it to London. He would have told him he was sorry.

He wants to hold Tony now. It's swift, the way that single thought takes over his mind completely. It's all he wants, all he needs, and he has to grip the edge of the table not to close the distance between them and wrap his good arm around him this very instant.

When Tony clears his throat, Steve realizes he's been lost in his own thoughts for one moment too long. "I'm kind of in the middle of things, Cap, so I would appreciate it if you could make this quick," Tony says in an entirely cordial tone. It's only a smidge shy of warm, almost genuine. If they weren't at odds with each other, Steve might feel tempted to take it at face value. As it is, though, the words make his heart shrivel.

Steve suppresses a sigh and takes the statement out of his pocket, laying it on the table with all the gentleness he's able to muster. "It's not a letter," he hurries to say. "It's—" 

_An olive branch. Is that what you call it?_

He had planned this, dammit, but he can feel Tony's eyes set on him, making all his carefully chosen words slip one by one from his mind. "When Sharon asked, I didn't doubt anymore," Steve finds himself saying, and oh, he's starting from the middle. He almost wants to laugh.

"Sharon?" Tony asks softly, eyeing the piece of paper. If he's mildly puzzled, it doesn't even show, because then he's nodding and saying, "Sharon Carter," putting two and two together no thanks to Steve.

"Yes, Sharon. We were, well, not quite _were,_ " he amends quickly. _Were_ implied a shared history he and Sharon barely had time to build together. He could blame bad timing yet again, but the truth is that he hadn't allowed himself to put down roots, to think of the future as something that was his to shape. It had been easier to sleepwalk, to let life pass him by all the while he clung to the past. "She and I didn't actually— We only, once before, we—"

A little too late, he realizes what he's doing. What he's attempting to do, in any case, because there's acting in the spirit of full disclosure and there's making a fool out of himself, and this is the latter. "It didn't work out," Steve says, and the rest of it gets caught in his throat. _I want us to work out. I need us to work out somehow, even if it's not in that way._

He hopes Tony can fill in the blanks this time as well, but his eyes are dull, unseeing. Steve might as well not be there. "That's none of my business, is it?" Tony says, returning his attention to the files spread before him. "I don't know why you're telling me these things."

Heat rushes to Steve's cheeks. It's not shame, he tells himself that it isn't, but for a moment he feels ashamed of his feelings all the same. They seem small and unimportant, childish rather than real. _But they are real,_ he thinks, digging in his heels and trying to shush everything else, the urge to hide, the fear of not fitting in, of never belonging. Back then, feeling this way would have been a sickness, a curse. It would have spelt damnation.

It doesn't feel wrong when Tony is touching him, when he can feel his warmth and the reality of his body fitting against his. There's no room for anything else that isn't him, not then. But here, with a chasm open wide between them all over again, he feels too weak to fight the parts of the past that are ugly and hateful.

_Look at me. Meet me halfway,_ he wills silently. _Please, please, I can't do this alone. I thought I could, but I can't._ If Tony is waiting for him on the other side, he can cross that bridge. If it's the two of them against all odds instead of against each other, then he can do it.

But it's not fair to ask this from Tony, not after what he did. And so he rises to the challenge and jumps before he knows it's safe down below, not willing to let one more thing slip from his grasp.

"You _know_ why," he says. It comes out half-choked, half-affronted, and when Tony spares him a look, Steve tries to hold his gaze. He also slides the piece of paper until it's well within Tony's reach, mirroring an offering. Tony's hand hovers over it, and the thought that he has more than earned the right to reject this as easily as Steve had done with the pen set he gave him makes his heart thump inside his chest. He can feel the tip of his fingers pulsing along with his heartbeats.

Tony takes the statement in his hands. Steve can see his own handwriting against the light and remember the way each sentence goes, the turns of phrase that echo Tony's words and those of his own making; he can take a guess at how long it will take Tony to realize what he's reading. It won't be long, knowing him.

It truly isn't. He can see it in the way Tony goes very still, all movement arrested except for his eyes darting across the page. "What's this?" Tony asks so quietly that it's hard to read his tone. His eyes go wide the way they do when he's angry, and for a moment it's so much like—

Steve flinches and goes cold in the split of a second. It had taken only a second for things to go haywire.

It had taken years.

Years of silence and fear and wishful thinking. It chokes Steve to think how much he'd wanted for everything to be a lie that Zola crafted to get under his skin, a path of crumbs that led nowhere. He had genuinely believed that he would be able to unravel the truth one day, that everything would be all right afterwards. Bucky would be able to come back, cleared from all guilt. Tony wouldn't hate him.

It was stupid of him. Naïve. Things have never been this simple for him, this easy. There's no happy ever after waiting for him at the end of it all. There's no end to it.

" _Steve,_ " Tony says low, and that gets his attention. He's jabbing a finger at the loose curves of Steve's handwriting, and for a moment he wonders if that letter still exists somewhere, if Tony burned it as soon as he was done reading it, if he fired a repulsor shot at it and wished he could do the same with all of Steve's things. "What is _this?_ "

He had been able to contain Tony's anger in that narrow window of time, before he said yes. It was admitting that he knew all along what made all hell break loose, and while this isn't the same, he can't help the feeling that he's going to lose him again.

"I'm signing," Steve says, squaring his shoulders. His voice probably carries the kind of stubborn self-assurance that Tony hates, but this is the only way he knows how to be. He gets knocked down and gets back up, that's what he does.

Tony barks a laugh. He rises to his feet and presses his hands flat against the table as if that were the only thing propping him up. "Why? Why _now?_ " His voice is hoarse. The words echo, they're loud in Steve's ears, and he knows that Tony's mind is going in circles, thinking once again of what he could have done differently the first time around.

Steve sighs and starts from the beginning this time. "I started reading the amended Accords not long after we got back. I didn't think I would change my mind, that's why I didn't say anything before. But I saw the work you did. I read your notes. I didn't always agree. I don't." He juts his chin towards the statement. Tony's eyes don't leave him. They're boring into him now, and he thinks of metal yielding hopelessly against fire, but he presses on. "But that used to make us good at what we do, to see things from different points of view. And I wanted that back. The team. Us."

"We were a fucking mess, Rogers. You're romanticizing the past again," Tony shoots back, and he's trying so hard to sound like he doesn't care one iota, but Steve sees right through the act. His eyes are a notch warmer, lined with soft wrinkles. When Tony smiles, the wrinkles deepen and become a joy to draw, and Steve misses seeing him smile so damn much that it makes him ache below the ribs the way it did before the serum, whenever he couldn't take a full breath.

"Maybe we were a mess. But we were better together and that's no lie, and I was almost ready to take that step. I was only holding back because it's _me,_ and then you almost—" Steve says, and everything catches fire inside him. Anger comes in a burst of blood rushing to his ears, and for a brief instant all he sees is the red of that perfect little circle dancing between Tony's shoulder blades. _The bastards thought they could—_

He takes a deep breath, then another. It's as useless as always.

"You almost died right in front of me. Sharon asked what I would do and I thought to myself, _I don't care anymore, I'll sign._ "

Now Tony is the one who looks away, making some of the holograms disappear with a flick of his fingers. "I don't see what me dying has to do with anything."

"Are you even _listening_ to what I'm saying? I don't give a damn. Anymore. All your comments have notes appended to them where I rebut about everything. Half of it is me disagreeing with the way the Accords were meant to be enforced. You know how UN Security Council resolutions come into being oftentimes. A select few at the helm. Veto power brandished around not with the common good in mind but according to agendas kept hidden from scrutiny."

"Don't think I'm not aware of its flaws, Steve. But no system is perfect. Come on, even democracy—"

"I know. Tony, believe me, I know," Steve says. Tony's lips part in surprise at the agreement, and all Steve can think about is that he wants to tilt Tony's chin so very gently and kiss him. He can hear his own heartbeats drumming in his ears. He's done for.

Other than that, there's quiet again, a knowing silence. It's a rare, encouraging moment during which no one is going off nor storming out. Maybe they can really do this. "The other half," Steve adds, allowing himself a small smile, "is me being petty-minded, a sanctimonious star-spangled prick, to borrow a certain someone's words."

"Self-righteous star-spangled bastard," Tony whispers, and there's a little twitch on the corner of his lips, so slight that he almost misses it. "I remember what I wrote."

Steve sighs. They used to joke like this. The idea that he almost lost this—that he almost lost _him_ —is unbearable. Without realizing it, he takes a step closer. He shouldn't. If he's not careful, he'll end up taking Tony in his arms, if only to convince himself that he's safe.

"You could have died, Tony. Everything seems smaller in comparison, even this." He eyes the paper lying under Tony's hand. "Natasha said that staying together was more important than how we did it, and it's taken me this long to see how right she was about that. And perhaps it's a small price to pay, isn't it? For us to stay together. For people to feel safer and have faith in us again.

"I don't trust the Accords fully. I don't think I ever will. But I trust our team. I trust you," he says, and Tony is looking at him as if he had said the exact opposite. There's a flash of naked grief in Tony's face, gone in about an instant, and it feels like a punch to the gut. It suddenly occurs to Steve that he has never told Tony this in so many words, and he can't help wondering what the hell went wrong since New York. It had felt like a new beginning. Looking at Tony then—alive, safe, eyes bright and warm—had felt like the past didn't weigh on him as much as it had before.

And he had let everything slip between his fingers.

"I know I haven't earned back your trust," Steve starts, clearing his throat.

"But there's the team to deal with," Tony says with a shrug, matter-of-factly, "and things that won't be waiting for us to kiss and make up." Steve shivers at the suggestion, and the thing is that Tony doesn't seem to have done it on purpose; he's not even looking at him. He points at Steve's statement and says, "You want us to compartmentalize."

"No, I want—" _I want to make you happy. I want to be able to hold your hand in mine and not care about the rest of the world. I want to wake up next to you. I want everything with you._ "I want us to work out," he says, and the words are out there at last, but it doesn't seem like Tony gets what he's really saying. There's a world Steve has begun to build in his mind. He's daring to imagine a life beyond serving, something of his own. He's imagining a life with him.

"So you're signing," Tony says, pinching the bridge of his nose before he lets his arms fall to the sides. "God, I need a drink."

"Tony?"

"I won't actually— I just need a break," he says, clearing the table at once. "Talk with Natasha. Does she know already? Does everybody else know?"

"No, I wanted to talk with you first," Steve says, and for a moment Tony simply stops what he's doing. It's brief, a moment's doubt, and then he's gathering everything under one arm, the statement included.

"Well, talk with her," he says, ready to take his leave, and then he stops on his tracks. "You don't actually have a copy of this, do you?"

Steve gives him a sheepish smile. "No."

"Goddammit, Steve," he says with a huff, leaving everything on the table in order to take a picture with his phone. Tony's fingers are shaking. His fingers are shaking and Steve wants nothing more than to wrap his hand around them and feel him relax under the touch, but it's yet another hopeless wish. "At the very least you could have used _carbon paper._ "

Tony pushes the statement against Steve's chest. Steve takes it. In between, there's a brush of skin on skin, the shape of Tony's knuckles sliding against his fingers. The touch feels like electricity, but Tony doesn't seem to register it.

"Natasha. Legal. Let them dissect the fuck out of this before you even think of making it public knowledge," Tony says, and then he's gone.

Without him, the room feels colder, emptier, and Steve is about to take his leave as well when he notices something by the windowsill, almost forgotten. It's the drawing of a monkey that he did once, the one he used to keep in his room.

 

 

When he tells Natasha, she's all smiles and then business. They discuss the wording through bursts of texting on her part that stop grating on Steve's nerves after she tells him it's Tony.

"You should see the look on your face just now," she says, lips a straight line, eyes on the screen. It's all in her delivery, an edge of something else. _I thought you and Tony were still gazing into each other's eyes._

"I've seen my face before. I know how it looks," Steve says, tongue-in-cheek. Still, he doesn't lose the soft smile that keeps tugging at the corner of his lips. On its own, falling in love would involve this—smiling about anything that reminds you of that person as well as that deeply felt sorrow hiding below the surface. Yearning. The early stages are always sweet and sour. 

With Tony, it's not only that, but the budding hope that this might be a start, the beginning of . . . something else. Not what he wants the most, certainly, but something. A way out of this mess, a path to something better. His heart is aching with longing, but he still smiles. Small joys are all he has for now.

"Neither confirming nor denying it, are you?" Natasha says, setting her phone on the table. A brief chime lets both of them know that a new message from Tony has come through, and it's Steve who looks down first. Natasha is still looking at him with a little knowing smile. "That'll be useful for what's coming."

There's another meeting with Legal, and then with a PR team. Tony's also there, along with that sharp focus that makes Steve breathless. He's hyperaware of his presence, of the way he paces around the room without saying anything, hands tucked in his pockets in a nonchalant manner. From time to time he'll chime in, giving Steve an excuse to simply look at the way light falls on his eyes and then outlines his profile. "We're going to have to work the press," Tony says. "I know you're not going to like it, but—"

Steve asks in a small voice, "We?"

Before everyone takes their leave, one of the assistants hands them their schedule, a neatly stapled printout in pastel tones. There's enough space to make corrections should they need to, but that won't be necessary. He'll go along with anything at this point.

"You wanted the team to work," Tony says by way of explanation, picking up the printout as he rounds the table.

"I did," Steve says. "I do."

"So we're stuck in this together," Tony says with a shrug. "If you want to object to something, speak now or forever hold your peace."

Steve breathes in and says very quietly, "I didn't mean just the team."

"It would be great if you didn't deviate wildly from the script," Tony says, ignoring what Steve just said in favor of pointing at the guidelines PR prepared for the occasion, a list of topics and suggested answers, all of them appropriate given the circumstances and the furthest from confrontational. "But I know better than to expect you to do as told, so. Now, there's still space for you to disagree—"

"It's fine."

Tony blinks and looks at him. "Fine?"

"Yes, it's—" Steve says, letting out a sigh. "I'll do my best."

"Because there's a threat coming, and if we could leave all of this behind us before— You'll do your best, you say," Tony repeats.

"Yes."

"So that means nobody will get punched in the face at the minimum. If we're lucky," Tony adds with a mostly straight face, but there's no doubt about it. He's teasing him.

"I'll see what I can do," Steve says. Tony snorts and shakes his head, and for a moment it's almost like it used to be. Almost. It's an echo of the past, and all Steve wants is to make it real, permanent. _Stay._

But all the things that needed to be said regarding the matter at hand have been said, and Tony has no reason to linger. He picks up his things without hurry, eyes cast down and lips pressed into the slightest of curves. As far as smiles go, his is only barely there, but it still makes Steve want to tread lightly, to be very careful with him.

He watches him take his leave. It seems that's all he does, lately. He stays behind and waits, heart slowing down just as the sound of Tony's steps begin to fade.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tony's heart isn't supposed to pull this shit anymore, but it aches a little. Every time Steve says thank you, every time he smiles like he isn't sure what Tony will make of it, it aches._

Tony keeps his part of the promise from the moment they land on D.C., letting the world know they're facing this as a unit, _together._ Steve tries to find the reluctance, the tell-tale signs that show what an ordeal this is to him, but he fails to find any.

There aren't excuses either. Tony could easily remind him that he's merely putting on a show for the sake of the team, or even that all he cares about is putting this behind them in order to finally focus on what's looming on the horizon. Instead, he's nothing but accommodating, and Steve feels undeserving but unable to refuse the attention, the way they pour through their notes in shirtsleeves and loose ties, the way they remain close by necessity.

It's the most normal Steve has experienced in months.

"I'm trying to make things easier," Tony says. He's drumming his fingers on his elbow, a simple beat to fill the silence.

"And I'm trying not to make things harder," Steve says, attempting a smile. "I know none of this is easy for you. And I know you aren't doing it for me, but I still appreciate it."

In answer, Tony lets out a soft puff of breath that almost falls out of hearing range. "Well," he says, shrugging like it can't be helped. Perhaps it can't and that's the only explanation for everything he's done so far. It's for the greater good, not for Steve's sake.

Still, Tony seems to care enough to be here, at the very least. If he didn't, he would have found a way to make everything work as smoothly as possible while being minimally present; he would have arranged for someone else to take his place instead of approaching the issue hands-on, losing time and sleep on something that Steve could have handled on his own. The thought is on the tip of Steve's tongue: _You don't have to try so hard. You don't have to put yourself through all of this for me._

He wonders if Tony would misunderstand him if he said it, if he would think that Steve doesn't want him here even after all that's happened. But it feels self-serving to remain quiet and do nothing but bask in his presence, so he says, "You're probably tired. We don't have to go through everything at once."

When Tony doesn't object, he softens his voice even further and adds, "And you must have other things to do, like dealing with the company. Is the company doing fine?" They never talked much about it, back in the day, only in passing. It was about Avengers' business first and foremost, all the while bits and pieces of Tony's other life would reach his ears through news outlets or thanks to the conversations he would hold with Pepper whenever she was back in town.

Seen from Tony's eyes, it probably seems like an odd time to start, and Steve is ready to hear something to the tune of _Rogers, don't mistake what's happening here for us being friends, because we're not._ Instead, Tony hums a yes. "Nothing out of the ordinary going on."

It was only a few days ago that they kissed once, twice, thrice. They haven't talked about it ever since, as if they had agreed to sweep it under the rug and leave it in the past as best forgotten.

Steve can't forget it. All the details are made new every night he spends awake thinking of him, every time he imagines Tony's hands on him, every time he finds release and swallows the sound of his name.

Sometimes it seems like Tony knows. He'll stare at Tony's mouth for a few seconds too long and give himself away, or maybe he'll break into a smile when Tony accepts the coffee he gets for him. As much as he tries, he can't hide the way he feels. He doesn't know if he actually wants to.

Sometimes Tony will become quiet, pensive. His fingers will ghost the cup Steve left in front of him just before he takes a sip, as if feeling for warmth. They are few and far between, but these are the moments that get Steve's hopes up, even if he's only seeing things that he wants to see, things that aren't there.

"Well then," Tony says and leans to pick up his jacket from the back of the chair. Steve follows the motion. From where he's sitting, Tony's shirt is open just enough to let him see a line of muscle standing out as it follows the path down his neck and then dips to meet his collarbone, and just below, the lightest trace of scar tissue where the arc reactor used to be. "It's showtime tomorrow. Don't stay up."

The door closes after him, and only then does Steve realize he's been holding his breath. Tony doesn't know. Tony has no way to know. If he knew—

He also thinks of him tonight. It's impossible not to do it when his suite is next to Steve's, when he can still feel the scent of Tony's cologne lingering on the living room. There's warmth again flowing inside him. There always is when Tony's on his mind. This time he simply waits with his hands pressed at his sides, bunching the sheets, breathing slowly until he eventually grows soft.

Tomorrow he'll climb the steps of Capitol Hill with Tony at his side. He's supposed to wear a bulletproof vest under his suit this time, no buts.

 _I had one on me in Afghanistan,_ Tony had said, bringing the cup near his lips. Neither of them seemed to have expected the admission. Steve had stopped doing what he was doing, drawing attention to Tony's words; Tony had looked into his coffee, pulling a face. There was only the faintest pink on the rim of his ears, and if Steve hadn't already known that he was in love with him, he would have been pressed to realize it just then. _Stupid me, I didn't think of testing how it would fare against that specific type of shrapnel at point-blank range. I know, not a good selling point, but you're wearing one nonetheless._

Happy had dropped by earlier with a briefcase. It sat in the middle of Tony's suite.

 _Only if you are wearing one too,_ Steve replied.

Tony crossed his legs at the ankle and continued sipping on his coffee.

_Tony._

He reached for a bread roll because he couldn't simply stay quiet, then spread some jam on one half of it with a butter knife. Tony and his perfect hands. _I have to wonder now, if I had kicked the bucket back then—_

_—the world would've been worse off._

Tony snorted. He had the gall to snort and say, _I wonder._

Steve wasn't having this conversation, not today, not ever. _Well, I'm damn sure. So will you wear one or—_

 _Of course I will,_ Tony had said, looking at him in the eye.

Steve had wanted to kiss him.

 

 

When the day arrives, he gets away with listing his misgivings regarding government control, because even if many seem to have conveniently forgotten how the fall of SHIELD was brought about, he hasn't.

Every detail is sharp like a blow. The scramble for time, the world about to change beyond repair, Bucky, without memories, standing in the way. Two helicarriers down. Just the one, locking on God only knows how many targets. Seconds slipping by and piling up towards a body count.

"The point being that it's not only enhanced individuals who should be subjected to accountability, especially if we're discussing events driven by, shall we say, particular interests opposed to all things decent and good," Steve says in a perfectly calm manner. In the back, some people snicker. He could have let his voice drip sarcasm, but he knows that delivery matters. He wants to present his arguments as sensible, not to look for a fight. Mostly.

 _There are checks and balances,_ they say. _There are laws._

Under the table, his hand closes into a fist, then opens. "Are there? And do they strike you as sufficient? They weren't enough to prevent Project Insight from almost succeeding."

"Captain Rogers, are you seriously comparing an agreement signed by more than one hundred countries to an operation mounted by HYDRA?"

"I'm not. I understand the need for cooperation, the need for boundaries," he says, and it's a wonder that Tony isn't the one who takes to laughing this time. "I'm merely saying that, as they were drafted in the beginning, who is to say that the Accords couldn't have been used as a pretext to send the Avengers into politically motivated missions?"

"Come on, these hypotheticals of yours—"

"With all due respect, sir, they stop being hypotheticals once there has been a precedent of this caliber," he says, and the hologram projected by his phone right on cue— _thank you, FRIDAY_ —shows a picture of Zola among other German scientists recruited by the U.S. government, and then a jump in time, footage of a helicarrier crashing into the Triskelion, of arrests made in the wake of the incident, including that of senator Stern, one of their peers.

Some agree with him. Others keep opposing his _insinuations._ For a moment, he stops being the focus of the hearing to give way to a partisan discussion about earlier acts of Congress, bills sponsored by Stern, curtailed civil liberties, and even a few controversial aspects of Secretary Ross' tenure. 

_Tsk, Rogers, would you look at your handiwork,_ he imagines Tony saying. He also pictures a headline printed in block letters: _Steve Rogers, notorious shit-stirrer._

The voices fade little by little, growing jumbled. If he closes his eyes, he can recall how it was like to glimpse at the helicarrier through heavy eyelids as he fell, to see that massive husk frozen in midair, catching fire in absolute silence, and then how peaceful it had been, the thought of having fought the last fight.

Later, he would learn without any room for doubt that Tony's name was on that list too. How could it not, being who he was? Steve tried to avoid thinking about it along with a great many other things, but he wasn't always successful. Lying in the half-light of his hospital room, he remembers thinking about Tony's new lease on life and how easily it could have lost meaning thanks to HYDRA, a zero sum.

His mind had been full of what ifs. What if he had failed. What if Tony had died alone. What if he hadn't died but been badly injured. He thought of Tony's happiness, dashed. He didn't want that. God, that was the last thing he wanted. 

A little less morbidly, he thought of what he would say if—when Tony called, and then about what he would say if Tony sounded cross because Steve hadn't asked him for help. _Well, if I remember correctly, you didn't call either back when your house was blown to pieces and everybody thought you were dead._

It was stupid and childish to hold that against Tony, but he couldn't help wishing that things had been different, that Tony had reached out to him, that he had needed him, that he'd been certain that Steve would have done his utmost to help him. He didn't say that when Tony did call, of course, even if Tony did sound miffed, perhaps even a little betrayed.

Steve said he was fine, even if he wasn't. They were used to not leaning on each other, at least not this overtly, with their vulnerabilities laid out in the open in the same way they had been the very first time they clashed. But he remembers hearing Tony's voice and thinking himself saved, anchored to reality by his clipped, rapid-fire sentences and the kind of irreverent humor that almost made Steve pop a stitch. He remembers thinking, _I've missed you. Somehow, it's not the same without you._

He doesn't know why he didn't recognize the feeling as something else back then.

"—and if I may have your attention, _Captain,_ " someone says. Very casually, as if his thoughts had never wandered, Steve looks up from his notes and nods. "You have spoken of freedom and declared yourself against ignoring the will of the people," the senator says in a droll tone, peering over her glasses at a piece of paper. "Isn't that hypocritical of you considering that your team did exactly that before, carrying out missions where you didn't have the authorization to do so?"

He takes a deep breath before he concedes at least part of the argument. "I could mention similar instances of our foreign policy, Senator. But you're right, we should learn from our mistakes. _I_ made mistakes that cost others a price far too high, mistakes that cost others their lives. I wish there were a way for me to rectify what I did, the decisions I took. But the only thing I can do is take the blame where blame is due. The only thing I can do is strive to do better by those I failed. And that's why I formally announce my intention to sign the _revised_ Accords."

As expected, his declarations cause a bit of a commotion, and as they wait for everyone to keep quiet, Steve turns his head ever so slightly. He doesn't know what he's looking for. Approval, maybe. Forgiveness. His stomach is in knots. He can't look yet, but he's angled towards Tony all the same.

 _It's done,_ he thinks. _Tony, it's done._

 _Too little, too late._ It's Tony's voice now, it's a memory, it's bullshit. It's not too late. It can't be. Whatever happens next, at least they're on the same side now.

He looks up.

Tony is looking at him. He appears calm, but Steve knows him well enough to be able to see through that particular lie. Tony must be buzzing with unspent energy underneath, a world in motion.

People are murmuring to one another about what he just said and Steve is looking at him as if Tony held the answers to all the questions he's been too afraid to ask. There's a raw kind of warmth nestled below his breastbone, something that doesn't quite fit inside his chest. 

He loves him.

Steve doesn't know what would have changed if he had realized it sooner. He also knows himself well enough to know that he still wouldn't have signed the Accords, at least not the first time around or even the second, but the rest of it . . . He has to believe that he would have told Tony the truth, that loving him would have made him braver even if he had stood to lose far more. 

Loss has been a constant in his life. He should be immune by now, if anything, because of repeated exposure. It's been years and years of losing everything that mattered and carrying on anyhow. His mother, Bucky, Peggy, the life he once dreamed for himself, lost to the ice. He should be used to all of it, but the truth is that he can't stand it any longer. He's clinging to this thing with Tony with all he has, tooth and nail.

(There's no such thing. There's nothing. Maybe Tony's been out of reach from the beginning and he's only chasing ghosts, but he can't let go.)

Steve lets out a puff of breath and silently begs him not to look away. By some miracle, Tony doesn't. There's something soft on his face, something brittle. There are lines on his brow and his mouth is slack, but his eyes are bright the way they were before they landed on Sokovia to face Ultron.

_It's done._

"Would you care to repeat that, Captain?"

He turns to face the committee again. "I will sign the Accords."

There are camera flashes going off outside the room, questions they decline to answer— _Later. There'll be a press conference. Look, I think he already gave you the story of the day, don't you think?_ —Tony walking briskly and Steve keeping pace with him. From the corner of his eye, he picks up the way each burst of light outlines his profile, and he wonders if anyone else can see it, the way he looks at Tony.

"Similar instances of our foreign policy," Tony repeats once they're inside the car on the way to the hotel. He hasn't kept his sunglasses on. They dangle from his fingers, ready to wear at short notice. "Ross will be thrilled." There's no curl on the corner of his lips, not exactly, but he's arching an eyebrow and giving Steve the kind of look that says, _You're a cheeky bastard and both you and I know it._

"Not only Ross, I imagine," Steve says, and maybe that's a bad thing, even if it's not surprising. Both of them have big mouths, this is nothing new. 

Tony hums. "On the other hand, I feel like Captain America being critical of how America's handled made you earn cookie points overseas."

"That's not why I did it."

"I know."

It's rush hour. Everything is painfully slow, but Tony doesn't seem to mind all that much to be trapped in traffic with him, which is a relief. There's no pinch to his eyes, no nervous little tic. He's only sagging a little against the seat, and if Steve were to point out that he looks tired, Tony would probably decide to walk the rest of the way just to prove him wrong.

If they weren't in this mess, _if they were lovers,_ maybe Tony would put his head on his shoulder. Maybe he would let Steve hold his hand too, to brush the pad of his thumb along Tony's knuckles. They kissed only a few days ago and the silence should be uncomfortable, but it isn't.

Tony breathes out and says, as if he still can't quite believe it, "You're signing."

The warmth on Steve's chest spreads, wraps itself all around him. "Yeah."

 

 

Steve can be charming when he wants to and subtle enough about it that it doesn't feel like he's faking it. It probably has to do with this aura of old-school all-American honesty that tends to make people forget for a split second that he went rogue for a while, complete with a renegade get-up—okay, pretty much the same suit that Tony had designed for him, only sans spangles—as well as longer hair and a full beard to match. He never saw any of this in all its decadent splendor, only in blurry pictures he barely raised an eyebrow at, feigning having any knowledge about it because he wasn't supposed to have it in the first place, but mostly to get a rise out of Ross.

 _Inconclusive,_ Tony had said, even though who else would have been able to track and dispose of weapons powered by Chitauri technology if not Steve and his merry friends, really. _Especially in a world of photostatic veils, and even more simply, costumes good enough to fool vetoing procedures back in Berlin. Sir._

Now, clean-shaved and with his hair swept in a way that reminds Tony of unflattering plaid shirts and khaki pants, it's hard not to find Steve boy-scout sincere when they ask him about the shooting and he replies, "Of course I didn't doubt." 

He almost sounds offended at the suggestion that their very public rift might have given him pause during that moment, and while he isn't glowering, it's a close thing. His hands are closing into fists and all of him seems about to burst with tension that Tony, sitting next to him since the press conference started, can almost feel under his own skin.

_What was the alternative, letting you get hurt?_

Tony wants to touch him. It's an odd impulse. He wants to whisper _Easy_ in his ear and lay one hand on top of his or pat his knee. The familiarity of it almost makes him wince. They're not like this and never have been. There's never been a moment when either of them was able to put the other at ease. Instead, his mental inventory includes fires being stoked, things made worse, posturing, escalation, choosing the path of least resistance whenever blowing a fuse or throwing a lit match onto a powder keg presented itself as a choice.

It's an unkind reading of their relationship. It's also not the full picture. Absent from this list are the fact that they once led a team together, how easily they used to complement each other in the field, the way Steve would sometimes smile at him while Tony did his best not to think of it as something that would stick.

Tony presses his fingers against Steve's back in a brief, light touch. He tells himself he's only doing it because he can't exactly go for an elbow to his ribs while there's a bunch of cameras trained on them; because left to his own devices, Steve might just pick a fight right here and now, all those PR coaching sessions be damned.

Under his fingertips, Steve shudders ever so slightly and stills, unclenching his hands. "Tony would have done the same," he says more softly as if he were telling a secret, and instead of looking at Tony and asking him to go along with it, he looks down.

"Well, he's not wrong," Tony says, thinking of Steve's skin, ashen and cold to touch, and then of his eyes, open, blank, unseeing. _The end of the path I started us on,_ Tony remembers telling Fury, and his smile feels tight around the corners, something half-broken he can only put together with effort. "We can't exactly afford losing a living legend," he adds, buying himself time. He rebuilds himself in seconds. There goes the easy shrug, the media-trained smile, and then he's back in the game, clearing the air.

Steve smiles too, but it doesn't reach his eyes. It's the parody of a smile, a small, frail thing. Tony hates it.

 _What did you expect me to say?_ Tony wants to ask him. _What more do you want from me? It feels like I've given you all I can give. What more do you want?_ There are clips of him looking distraught as Steve lay on the ground bleeding, a bullet-sized hole piercing him through. There are notes on him somewhere, surely, listing Steve as a weakness, a character flaw to be exploited. There's Ross saying _Rogers_ in a room full of people and looking only at Tony in the eye, fully aware that he would have begged on his knees to spare Steve's life if that's what it took, even after Siberia. Doesn't Steve know by now? Doesn't the whole world?

_Fine, you can have it all._

"We need him here in the future," Tony says, and Steve's eyes are on him at once, it's ridiculous. It makes his chest ache. He doubles down on it with what he hopes isn't too much of a grimace. "We do. The world would be worse off without him and that's a fact whether you want to admit it or not."

Tony lets out a puff of breath, takes his wounds and his lingering pain and his pettiness, and stuffs them all in a box, wraps a bow around it tightly, puts it out of sight. This is not about the two of them. It's about the truth, and the truth is that they need Steve Rogers, plain and simple.

"We all make mistakes. Some of us more publicly than others," he says, offering himself as an example. All his life under the spotlight laid bare for others to judge, and now it's him who has to put in a good word for good ol' Cap. Absurd, that's how it feels like, but not exactly new. He's had this conversation before, on prime time shows and for full-spread pieces, time and again as the only Avenger left to deal with the press, and for all that he's heard Steve being called out of touch, a liability, and even a menace, it hasn't changed what he knows.

"I told you this a few years ago," Tony says, leaning in. "That I would no longer be part of a system where lack of accountability was the default, where it was enough to think we did well because we _meant_ well, because we were supposed to be the good guys. It's no different now just because our day jobs are not just about defending our country anymore, but about keeping Earth safe. 

"I told you this and I stand by it, and Cap— _Steve_ and I have had our differences, as you know, but believe me when I say that he's always wanted to do what's right, he—"

Not always, is the thing. Else, he would have told him the truth.

 _It's not about us,_ Tony reminds himself, gritting his teeth. _He failed me, he let me down, but that doesn't matter right now. I know he's better than that. I know, I know, I know._

"He's always wanted to serve, to do what they've asked of him, to the point that it's easy to forget how much we've asked of him. And well, unlike me, he's _almost_ always seen the merit in following orders. You know how it goes—it's on the history books." Tony sits closer to the edge of the chair and for a moment he pretends that Steve isn't here at all.

Easier said than done.

"Now, imagine how much it took to shake that kind of faith. Imagine what it was like to come out the other side of something like the fall of SHIELD, to find out that HYDRA was pulling the strings for the better part of a century. Who in their right mind wouldn't have some reservations? Hell, I didn't trust the government with my suit either, which, on hindsight, was a terribly good call on my part knowing what we now know."

Some people chuckle. Others are nodding. So they all remember Stern's little committee. Good.

"But, for things to work, for society to function at all, we need to have a modicum of trust in each other. There's simply no other way, otherwise we wouldn't get anything done, we would stagnate, there would be no progress. Which brings us to the Accords," he says, turning to involve Steve in the conversation, and even though he's looking at Tony a little wide-eyed, he nods at the appropriate times.

Tony clears his throat. "The governments, _their citizens,_ can trust that in our effort to neutralize incoming threats, we won't wantonly disregard the safety of the people we want to protect in the first place, that it's all part of a coordinated effort to keep everyone safe and sound. At the same time, we get enough of a say in how missions are carried out, thus avoiding the pitfalls that Steve mentioned earlier."

"Are the Avengers back in an official capacity, then?" someone asks.

Out of view, Steve's fingers brush his left arm, and without even having to exchange a look, Tony leans back in the chair, giving him the floor. "That's correct. Those who recently signed the Accords have been reinstated," Steve says, and the touch lingers even as he continues to speak, a hint of warmth seeping through the fabric of Tony's suit. _Absurd._ "As for me, and regardless of the final verdict on my status as an active team member, I remain committed to work alongside Tony and the other Avengers in whatever capacity I can."

"What he said," Tony says, not missing a beat, and neither of them are moving, either to let go or to draw back, and all Tony can think about is that his skin should prickle and then burn under Steve's touch, but it doesn't. "I wish we had agreed on this sooner, I do. But well, I'm told we can't all be perfect, not even Captain America."

People laugh at that. Steve smiles a small smile and lets his hand fall.

After everything is over, Tony is the first to open his mouth. "I'm aware I stole your line about the world being worse off and what not."

Steve shakes his head. "That's not—I just wanted to say thank you," he says, and then he holds his hands up. "I _know._ I know I shouldn't read too much into it, but still."

Tony's heart isn't supposed to pull this shit anymore, but it aches a little. Every time Steve says thank you, every time he smiles like he isn't sure what Tony will make of it, it aches. It's frustrating to the extreme. He wishes Steve were more of a sanctimonious jerk, because then he would know how to deal with that, at the very least. But this Steve who looks at him as if there were something there beyond the guilt, beyond the fear of losing his place in the world all over again—

He doesn't know what to do with it.

Tony shrugs. "It's not like I pulled everything I said out of my ass," he says, and laughter bubbles up out of Steve just before he thinks better of it and presses his lips into a line, lowering his eyes. He looks both young and weary, and Tony wants to be angry, looking at him, but he's only fond. There's an idea taking shape, infectious as most terrible ideas are, that maybe he can pretend, if only for a little while, for as long as they're away from home. Maybe he can pretend he believes him, that he believes the looks, the lingering touches, the way Steve kissed him back. Maybe—

The doors open with a ding. He's an idiot, that's what he is. He's too old for this. He should know better.

He gives Steve a curt nod and then walks to his suite without saying anything else.

 

 

On the next interview, they ask about Barnes. Tony's prepared for this the way he's prepared for everything as of late, facts carefully put together and precise calculations thought about in seconds and during sleepless nights, and running in the background, a small measure of panic.

Barnes, as a topic, had been a single bullet point at the end of a printout the PR team handed Steve later than everything else, once they were in D.C. Tony hadn't wanted to discuss it directly with him, but he tended to plan around every contingency and this wasn't the exception.

 _Are you sure?_ Steve had asked, and Tony had said yes.

It still seems to take Steve by surprise somehow, the fact that they would remember to mention him, to say _Bucky Barnes_ and not _the Winter Soldier._ Tony breathes, heartrate picking up, and Steve swallows, blinks, and then recounts what he said during the hearing, HYDRA's ruthless methods, Barnes' innocence, all in a straightforward matter. This is Steve when he puts up enough walls to build a Cold War bunker, all semblance of emotion kept under a tight lid, and it's a mistake.

It's not like Tony hasn't considered what they need when it comes to Barnes. He considers everything, from ways to keep Peter safe to ways to keep Earth safe, and if it borders on obsession, entertaining doomsday scenarios and addressing every single thing that could go wrong, well, that's what happens when your whole world gets turned upside down, what with almost dying in space and seeing everyone else die too.

So what they need when it comes to Barnes, if they're to _buck_ the trend of public opinion thinking of him as a cold-blooded assassin, all heartfelt remembrances of him as a Howling Commando largely forgotten, is to paint him human. Tony knows this because he's been trying to do the same fucking thing. He's gained access to old files and personal effects that were in display before they cancelled the Captain America exhibit, all of which FRIDAY digitalized and indexed for easy retrieval.

There was much less than what Steve had when he woke up. Barnes had no drawings lovingly preserved throughout the years, no buildings with small plaques bearing his name. There were replicas of his uniform and his weapons of choice, loose pages that might have belonged to a war journal once, clear-cut observations detailed in neat penmanship, the steady hand of a sniper.

Tony has tried to think of what would have happened if any of his suits had been controlled remotely with him inside; he's tried to think of Steve and Barnes being as young as him and Rhodey once were, as young as Peter and Ned are. He's tried to imagine Barnes' life as a Midwest transplant and not go mad by making him real, an actual human being, someone's son, someone's older brother, Steve's best friend, Steve's only family.

In the end, he'd gone back to the beginning, Barnes as a sniper. Distance and trajectories and rapidly changing factors to keep in mind before hitting bull's eye, skills honed through practice, a good eye for detail. Barnes' comrades trusted him with their lives, he knows. There are testimonies, eulogies. A good soldier, a better man. A young American fighting a war that had to be fought.

"He served in the same regiment than your father, right?" Tony says, slinging an arm over the loveseat and working this tidbit into the conversation as if it wasn't the calculated move it is, as if he hadn't acquired a brand new set of nightmares for his troubles.

Steve stops talking midsentence and then looks at Tony. Tony stares back in a way he hopes conveys something to the tune of _I won't wax poetic about him like I did the other day with you, Rogers, that's on you._

"He was," Steve whispers. 

_If only you had told me,_ Tony thinks as he regales him with an encouraging smile that isn't real.

It isn't difficult to appear engaged while he tunes out the rest of what Steve says, to answer technical questions once the subject of his MIT talk comes up—traumatic memories, innovative applications of technology in healthcare. He's a poster boy for both. It's easy.

It also saps him of energy to the point that the chunk of time between the end of the interview and the moment they exit the building is nothing but a blur.

"FRIDAY," Tony says, adjusting his glasses, "did I—"

 _Space out,_ suggests the autocomplete. It's not the first time he asks this after he's done dealing with the press for the day, not that he's worried. He's only been in danger of getting sloppy ever since the Accords made him a fixture in the news cycle without ever giving him a break. No big deal.

The message pops up in his line of sight. " _If you did, it wasn't noticeable, boss._ "

"Good to know."

"Tony."

"I don't want to hear a single word about it," Tony says once he's sure no one else can hear them. His face is collected, blank. He has to be careful in case someone's followed them, or else the story of how their rapprochement is a big fat lie will come first time next morning together with their breakfast.

"You didn't have to," Steve says softly, ignoring what Tony just said, and anger kindles inside him as easily as that, even in light of Steve's gentleness. Because of it, perhaps.

"Except I _had,_ because my life is all about doing things I'm not thrilled about to make up for the mistakes—" Tony stops to take a breath because his fingers are starting to twitch all on their own, which is fucking distracting, and that single pause is all it takes for Steve's eyes to grow dull.

"For the mistakes I make," he says, taking a hit that wasn't for him.

They've been here before, far too many times to count. Misunderstandings. Good intentions taken badly. A heap of things unsaid. They're ill-timed, mismatched. Tony was born too early. Steve was found too late. 

Maybe he could still save this, if he tried. Maybe he could say, _No, Steve, for mine,_ the way he'd intended. But the truth is that he isn't sure getting along with Steve has been an objective of his all along. He doesn't know if it's worth the effort, if it isn't easier for them to play the roles they've always played. Tony Stark, the man who has everything and nothing, doesn't know what he wants.

Oh, but sometimes he does. Sometimes it scares him how close he's come to wanting it fiercely, to let it overtake him. If he let himself want Steve for real, there would be no going back. So he can't let it happen.

Maybe he could call his name and ask him to understand this and all the other things he can't say, and hope that's enough.

Except he doesn't.

As a result, the rest of the ride is quiet. It's what he wanted, for Steve to comply with his wishes, except that now he's taken it to the next level. From the corner of his eye, Tony can see how he's holding perfectly still, back ramrod straight, hands gripping his knees. He looks as comfortable as he did during the hearing, and a part of Tony wants to say something and make him feel at ease, but it's safer to let the silence stretch, to become distance.

There's an itch under his skin anyway. Tony was never one for safe choices.

"Anything on your mind?" he ends up asking with an affected sigh.

"The interview tomorrow," Steve says as if he were talking to no one in particular. He's not looking at Tony, in any case.

"You'll be on your own." Tony busies himself answering emails while they're stuck in traffic because two can play the same game. "It's on the program."

"Right," Steve says, and it's unbelievable how easily he can pack all that sullen disappointment into a single word.

"Look," Tony says, which is a mistake because Steve does exactly that, he looks at him. He's too close. His eyes are too blue. Tony almost forgets everything he's been telling himself about the both of them. "They aren't fans of mine, exactly. They like you all right. That's why you're going on your own." 

"Because that way we can take you down a peg to our hearts' content," Steve scoffs.

"It's just easier this way," Tony says, and he can't believe what he's about to offer with so little prompting. "I'll pick you up, okay? After the interview is over."

"You don't have to do things you're not _thrilled_ about," Steve says, raising his voice a notch, and in the span of seconds, his frown disappears, his face falls. "You really don't have to. You've done more for me than I actually deserve."

Tony rolls his eyes hard even though his chest is aching. " _My mistakes,_ that's what I meant to say earlier. You don't have the monopoly on that. We're both fuck-ups, Rogers. Happy now?"

Steve smiles at him, tentative. His smile is frayed; it flickers around the edges. It's something fragile and far too soft to exist between them, after everything. Tony can't be trusted with it.

 _Cut that out,_ he wants to say. Instead, a thought comes unasked for. That someone should be gentle with Steve, someone who's not him.

It can't be him, but he almost, almost wants to.

He wants it terribly and it simply can't be.

 

 

When they reach the hotel, they go through a battery of possible questions. Steve is pacing around, far away enough that it doesn't feel like he's looming over Tony while he lies on the couch, legs propped on the armrest.

"The Avengers would follow procedure," Steve says, and the sound comes from far away, a staccato rhythm, a low rumble he can feel vibrating just under him.

Tony mumbles something in reply and then there are flashes of charcoal and white rushing by at each side, nothing but rugged peaks and snow for miles without end. The scenery resolves itself into metal innards, the entrails of a beast. But this thing isn't alive nor attacking New York. The lines that rise to meet his fingers are clean, sterile. The space is narrow. The ground is still rocking softly, and fuck him, he knows this place too. 

He's got a schematic of one such _Schnellzug_ back in the lab, for no real reason. He knows the exact speed this train to hell can reach. He knows where the corridors lead better than Steve and Barnes and Gabe Jones did. He knows the walls can't withstand Tesseract-powered weapons. He knows.

He doesn't know how this played out in reality, but that's the beauty of dreams, all details are filled out for you free of charge. Barnes is crouching on the ground and one side of the wagon has been peeled to reveal those same ridges. The emptiness that will claim him is just below.

"Get away," Tony says, but it's no use. He's talking to a ghost.

He'll play a hero, he'll do something stupid. Good God, Barnes was so young.

And so it happens. There's a burst of blue light. Game over.

Steve—no, Tony. It's Tony here and now, and he'll try to get to Barnes. He does. He clings to the bars and stretches out one hand. Iron Man saves lives. Tony stares into Barnes' eyes and sees something he doesn't want to remember. He thinks, _He killed my mom,_ and in the second it takes him to doubt, Barnes slips and falls.

His heart is about to explode. It was a dream, he knows, only a nightmare, but he's going into fight-or-flight mode regardless, blood thrumming on his ears.

"—up, Tony," Steve calls softly, and even that's too much. The way Steve whispers his name feels like something's crawling on his skin.

" _Stay the fuck away._ " It comes in an ugly strangled voice he doesn't recognize as his own. "Don't come near me," he pleads, because Steve doesn't have the shield but he's close enough to get his hands on him, because he just saw Tony break down again, _goddammit,_ because Tony let Barnes fall, because he came this close to killing him.

His breathing is a harsh rattle, the only sound in the room. Steve nods and takes his leave, and Tony can't even look at him in the face.

"—if you need me," Steve says before he closes the door as silently as possible, and then he's alone.

He should call the suit. He should get the fuck out of here. But he only slumps against the couch and rubs his arms and tries to breathe. "You would've told me if I'd had a coronary right in the middle of my freak-out, right?" he whispers out loud, pressing his knuckles against his sternum.

" _I would have alerted medical services. You're okay, boss,_ " FRIDAY says, and it's soothing to hear it.

"Did I ever tell you I'm glad to have you?" Tony huffs a laugh that comes out nervous. It doesn't feel like he told JARVIS this, not enough.

" _You don't have to._ "

Tony smirks. "Because you know?"

" _Because I know,_ " she says with a kind of certainty that rings familiar. JARVIS had the real Jarvis' mother hen tendencies. FRIDAY grounds him and keeps him on his toes.

 _I actually don't think that you could tie your shoes without me,_ she'd said all those years ago.

He borrows things from people he's loved.

Outside, the sun is going down quickly. It feels like he's been huddled here forever. He shakes his head and straightens his clothes as best he can. He stands and doesn't wobble, and he's about to text Steve to say he can have his suite back when there's a knock on the door.

"I don't mean to—I just," Steve says, holding a paper cup for Tony to take. As soon as he does, Steve turns to go, and Tony is left standing by the door, staring at the cup and turning it in his hand. There's a chicken scratch of a scribble that reads _Ewan,_ and stupidly, Tony laughs at it. 

"They got your name wrong?" Tony calls after him. His voice is still rough.

"They got some of the letters right," Steve says with a shrug and a rueful smile.

He should say _Thanks._ He should say _Sorry._ He should say, _Steve, don't be gentle with me._ "I don't think I can do coffee right now," Tony says.

"It's not. It's a chamomile blend. I got one too," Steve says, showing him his own paper cup, and Tony shouldn't find that cute. He should leave.

"Come in," he says instead, inviting Steve to his own damn suite, and isn't that rich of him.

They walk to the terrace. There's still a little light left, a little warmth. Tony soaks on it. "I'm sorry I snapped at you like that."

Steve shakes his head. "Tony, you don't have to apologize, I should have—"

"I didn't mean to freak out. Obviously. Who would? It's just—"

"Embarrassing?" Steve whispers, and Tony tries very hard not to flinch. He studies the way the streets intersect below and doesn't see a ravine. "It's—no, Tony, I didn't mean—it just _feels_ like that, doesn't it? Even if no one's watching you. Almost no one." 

_Oh._ "Sam?"

"JARVIS."

Tony snaps his head up. "You told JARVIS you had nightmares," he says, trying to fit that piece of information into everything else he knows.

"My teeth would chatter from time to time. I guess that gave it away," Steve says with a smile, trying to make it sound like it isn't the big deal it is, and Tony wonders what would have happened if he hadn't joked like he did in the quinjet, if he'd said _Steve_ instead of _Capsicle,_ if anything would be different now, if they would be friends. "He would make the room feel warm again. It seemed like such a small thing to do, but he kept it warm, for me. I didn't have to say anything. He took care of us the way you did."

"I do things because I feel like it. Either that or I had ulterior motives at the time," Tony says into his cup.

" _Bullshit,_ Tony. You made him and he was kind because you were, because you _are,_ " Steve says, and he looks like he's ready to fight him on this.

"I kicked you out of your suite," Tony says like it's all a joke to him even now, but Steve doesn't buy it. He's looking at Tony like he's waiting for something genuine in return, but he's only setting himself up for disappointment. Tony's done trying to live up to what Steve expects of him. He always gets it wrong, anyway.

 _Every time I think you're seeing things the right way,_ he'd said. Steve only has to stop feeling guilty for one second and remember it.

"I should—" Tony says, jerking a thumb towards the door, ready to leave him hanging the coward's way out.

He stops between the terrace and the living room. One day they're going to run out of chances to salvage this. They'll become strangers. Maybe they never stopped being that. It's probably for the better and he should want it to save himself the heartache, but he can't bring himself to leave yet. His fingers are still clutching the French doors. 

"I'm not kind. It's just guilt." _It's just pain, that's what's going on._ "I did so many things wrong."

"That doesn't mean—" Steve starts, faltering midway, and that's great, really, if he can finally see it, if he can remember there are constants in the universe and Tony not being good enough is one of them. "You've also done so many good things, you've created wonderful things, and I—"

Tony spins on his heel and steps closer. There's warmth that comes with the knowledge that Steve is near, less than an arm's length away. He's kissed him before. He could do it again. He knows how Steve tastes, a dash of mint, something just shy of syrupy sweet. He knows he answers in kind, that what he doesn't have in experience, he makes up for in enthusiasm. Tony stares at his lips, deliberate, and Steve goes very still. His eyes are big, the pupils blown wide. There's a bed nearby. It would be so easy.

"I appreciate the thought," Tony says, keeping his distance because he doesn't trust himself, and just like that, he retreats to his suite.

Once there, he closes the door, bolts it. His fingers hover over his fly.

He breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I think we're heading down the home stretch. If my math is right, and it rarely is, the story is supposed to have around five chapters left. But since I'm terrible at estimating how wordy I can get, that number doesn't really mean anything. In any case, the wait between chapters will be shorter because the next one is already written, but since I really don't know how long it will take me to write the rest, let's say I still don't have an update schedule. *throws hands up in the air*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All of Tony's pain, all of Steve's regret, and there's fuck all they can do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to ishipallthings for her help last chapter! I'm a fool and forgot to mention it last time.
> 
> I still don't have an update schedule, but as I said before, this was already written.

They do briefings in the car, but this time he's been told to go to the helipad. It's not actually a surprise. They packed their things yesterday. They were meant to go home once they took care of everything. Still, Steve amuses himself with the idea that it's a Tony thing to do, because when Tony Stark says _I'll pick you up,_ of course that he's bound to do it like this.

It's silly of him. It's not like Tony is trying to impress him. It's not like this could be called a date by any stretch of the imagination, even if they were in good terms. But he's been in dire need of punching something, _anything,_ for the last half hour, and he welcomes the distraction.

The chopper lands, and now he braces himself for what's coming. Tony is donning a black leather jacket, a white shirt with the top button open, sunglasses tinted blue. His hair is styled in what passes for effortless, like he only deigned himself to spend one minute or two running his fingers through it, mussing it just so. It's mere observation. He looks good.

He always does, is the thing, and Steve doesn't think of last night. He doesn't think of how he meant to run the shower ice cold but didn't, of how he needed the heat, for something to burn higher than he did after Tony left, of how the thought of him shook through Steve's body as he came, of how it brought him to his knees.

It's the last thing on his mind.

"Hop in," Tony says. 

The control panel lights up, and then they're in the air. Tony's got a tablet on his lap, but he's not even trying to appear busy. He's looking at Steve in the eye, drumming his fingers on one knee, and here it comes, the thing he's been steeling himself against.

"I don't want to fight," Steve says instead of hello.

"Well, you sure looked like you wanted to," Tony says, narrowing his eyes at him.

"But I _didn't._ Did you, what, expect me to stay quiet while they said those things about you?"

Tony sighs like he's tired of this conversation already. "It's not like it was wild speculation. Playing hero while flying a suit of armor, _or I don't know,_ sending a missile to outer space doesn’t actually give me a pass for all the things I did prior to that. And after. It doesn't work like that, else you would've—" Tony cuts himself short and shakes his head, and Steve's face goes hot in a matter of seconds. "You know it doesn't work like that."

"I was a fool, I didn't know what I was talking— Did you just say _sending_ a missile? Tony, you carried that thing _on your back._ "

Tony is starting to get annoyed. There's that upward look, not quite an eye-roll, and then the way he huffs through parted lips. "It's _fine,_ Steve."

"What? No," Steve says, because never in his life has he learned to drop something and let it be. "No, it's _not_ fine."

Tony's brow creases with deep-set lines, and Steve hates how easily they get like this. " _Take a breather,_ would you? Do you really have to lose it over every little thing?"

"I won't take a breather. They don't know you. They _don't_ know!" Steve yells, and in the wake of his outburst, the silence feels heavy and stifling. Tony is closing his hand into a fist, his wristwatch-cum-gauntlet gleaming a warm shade of silver in the afternoon light, and Steve remembers T'Challa telling him how Tony sent the chopper away as a decoy and piloted the suit all the way to Siberia, because Tony did that, he did that for Steve, and Steve doesn't know if he has it in him _not_ to jump right after Tony in case he calls the suit and flies away because he's fed up with Steve's shit.

Instead, Tony rolls his eyes. "Jesus, okay, Rogers. You feel strongly about the subject for some reason. I got it."

Steve blinks, heart pounding inside his chest. "Okay?"

"Yes, it's not like—" Tony waves a hand in front of his face. " _I guess_ it's not such a bad thing, given that we're supposed to be part of a team again and all that jazz. And you actually didn't punch anyone in the face as I feared you would, so."

"Not for lack of wanting," Steve says, and Tony lets out a breathless little laugh he can't help and looks down, and he looks—

He looks tired and older— _where did time even go?_ —but his face has grown softer in a way it rarely gets around Steve, and if he bothers to raise his eyes any second now, he's going to know that Steve wants to kiss him, that kissing him is all he wants to do.

"Well," Tony says, picking the tablet and swiping the screen without paying attention to Steve. "Thank you for defending my honor."

"I, sure, yeah, Tony," Steve answers stiffly and all too seriously to what's only teasing on Tony's part.

Tony hums, barely acknowledging him, and then he reaches for a snack bag, rips it open, and tosses blueberries in his mouth. It's distracting, the way his fingers cover his lips, but more than that, it's déjà vu.

He still has a mouthful of berries puffing his cheek when he catches Steve staring. "There are also snacks on your side of the—"

"No, it's—I'm fine," Steve says, and Tony shrugs, and it's stupid to get stuck on this, to wish he could turn back time, but he can't help it. He steals a glance at him again. He tries to be subtle about it, at least, but it doesn't seem to work because Tony ends up letting out a weary sigh and tipping the bag in his direction.

Steve isn't about to get flustered over something like this, he _won't,_ but it's hard for him to reach the berries at the bottom of the bag, so he's forced to wrap his fingers around Tony's hand to get leverage—a flimsy excuse—and that's when he feels it, the very slight jerking motion Tony makes, and now he's going to say, _Rogers, just keep the damn bag,_ Steve just knows, so he does his best to pick one, two, three blueberries as fast as he can, except it's not fast enough.

"Thank you," Steve says in a low voice. His ears are burning. Maybe he'll jump out of the chopper after all.

"Okay," Tony says, and then silence falls upon them.

 

 

He punches so many bags. He turns them into pulp. One and then another and another in quick succession, all of them lined up like carcasses on the gym's floor. There must be a detailed budget set aside for all the things he, specifically, destroys. He can't imagine there isn't. He bets FRIDAY would know.

_Here's how much you've cost Mr. Stark throughout the years,_ he imagines her saying, an endless list of broken, ruined things bearing his name. _Would you like me to quantify the price of emotional labor too?_

The cloth wrapping his knuckles is turning a pinkish red, but Steve only scoffs and keeps at it. Normal people wouldn't go this far. Normal people aren't freaks of nature who can't get themselves under control.

It's been a week since they came back from D.C. and he's seen Tony two times in total. The words they exchanged easily amount to a dozen, and he's the one who did most of the talking. It's back to square one, strike two, and he's losing his mind.

He's thought about offering to move out of the compound, in case that's the problem. He's thought about asking Tony if he wants to move forward or not at all. But it's easier to punch things, to stay in limbo even though he can no longer stand it, to ignore how he's running out of hope.

His fist slides across the leather instead of connecting full on, a miscalculation. His muscles are sore, his lungs are on fire. He's had enough for today.

He goes to his room, where he hits the shower. He lathers up, scrubs, and washes in only a few minutes the way he did between missions, with the expectation of having to make off at the drop of a hat. It's about getting clean, not about indulgence. He turns off the water and stares into nothing, wet and limp. He dries off.

He pads to the bedroom. Droplets fall from his hair and run down his spine in a suggestion of touch, and he follows the motion. His fingers slide from his nape to the curve of his shoulder to the outline of his arm, and he remembers Tony's hands, the pressure of Tony's fingertips as they ran down his side.

Steve closes his eyes. In the half-light, his breathing is louder. He's rarely gentle with himself, but his hands start to rove, they wander. He's touching himself as he would touch Tony if only he were allowed, light strokes, feather-like touches. Like he's still fragile deep down.

His calves bump against the bed and he shudders, goosebumps teasing the hair on his arms. The comforter is plush, filled with down. Soft. He tugs at the towel wrapped around his waist and lets it fall on top of the bed. He lies down and thinks of Tony's eyes and remembers New York, the taste of dust on his tongue, the pungent smell of a city burning.

Tony had barely begun to make a beckoning motion, the slightest wiggle of his gauntlet, flesh and bones hiding behind the scratches set deep into the metal of his suit; he had barely opened his mouth to say _Captain, if you will,_ when he noticed that Steve had already held out a hand to help him up. There was a flash of something in his eyes then, amused and warm.

He didn't know it then, but he does now. How precious it had been Tony's boyish, wide-eyed wonder, how genuine it had been Steve's own relief. Tony was alive. Steve hadn't lost anyone again. It made the future seem a little less foreign than before, something real instead of the nightmare he'd been expecting it to be for days, a muffled scream buried under rage and wretchedness buried under _I can do this, I have to do this, there’s no going back, I must._

It should have been too soon for optimism, but he let his walls crumble. He let it work into his heart little by little, no shield raised high against it, this _now,_ this team, all of it, like the world they'd just saved was something he could call theirs. The world Tony had almost died to protect. The world Steve could learn to love one day.

But in the end he only has this, broken dreams and hopeless longing and the ghost of Tony's touch carved into him.

He's only half hard. It should be pointless. But Tony's eyes had been so full of light then. Beautiful. Lying on his bed, it's painful but not difficult to imagine the warmth of Tony's body pressed against him, and that sight being the first one to greet him each morning. His eyes, his bed hair, his sleepy smile. It's so vibrant that he almost feels robbed of it, this thing he's never earned.

Steve expects nothing, wants everything.

He opens the drawer of his nightstand and reaches for lube he bought like he was ashamed, with a cap on and sunglasses and two-day stubble. _Something for yourself,_ he'd thought, feeling stupid but determined to discover the kind of things he could bear, the things he could come to like. To make room for something he knew would be off the table because he only saw himself wanting it with someone he couldn't have.

The lube is cool on his fingers. He knows what he's supposed to do. _The Internet, as always, so helpful._ He's alone, laughing at himself and aching with want.

He breathes in and out. He pushes one finger inside him and it feels as odd as the first time he did this and chickened out, like it doesn't belong there. He tries to relax, to let go. To not clench his jaw like everything is something he has to endure. To accept, to receive, to be patient, to be soft like clay.

He thinks of Tony kissing him again, being gentle with him, but somehow that's not right. Steve wants to give, to go on his knees and take Tony in his mouth. He wants to feel Tony's hands yanking his hair, being harsh and telling Steve this is the only thing he deserves. He wants Tony to be demanding, to exact pleasure from him, to take everything he wants.

He knows he hasn't earned tenderness. He doubts Tony would give it freely. He's angry; he said as much last time. _No matter how much of an asshole you can be, you still don't deserve—_

Steve doesn't care. He wants him whole. He wants to swallow his pain. He, in truth, wants so much more, but he would rather have Tony and all of his anger if that's the only way he can have him. 

He clutches his thigh until it hurts and leaves angry red marks that won't stay. He works himself open like he's an offering. He imagines Tony thrusting into him, ramming into him, getting closer and whispering how much he hates him instead of sweet nothings, and he should be better about this, so much more stronger, but his eyes sting. He can't help it. And there, mixed with pain, there's pleasure. A shudder that makes his hips buck.

He's panting, one hand clutching the sheets and then roaming the length of his body. He doesn't know where to touch. He brings himself to the edge and then backs off. He's a tease, a liar, not someone people should trust. He's fucking himself with his fingers without shame, eyes fully open, and all he wants is for Tony to do this, to take him apart if it so pleases him.

For Tony to do whatever he wants with him, if he wants anything to do with Steve at all.

 

 

In the nightmare, his mother is bleeding. There's no one else, only her and the car, the front smashed and crumpled like cardboard, smoke billowing into the cold December air, turning into fire. He climbs into the driver's seat and cups her face. No one crushes her windpipe here. Her voice is soft when she says _Dear,_ and he still can't do anything. He can't call the suit to wrap around her and protect her from harm because he's fucking twenty-one again. Then, he wakes up.

He doesn't even sit up, he remains lying on his side. His heart feels like it's about to go off, to be torn into shreds, and he waits for it to calm the fuck down and catch up with his brain. His eyes are wet. He's not going back to sleep after this, so he doesn't even try.

At night, the compound is silent like a grave. He doesn't want silence, silence begets thoughts. He puts on an earpiece that blasts _rock and roll ain't noise pollution_ and leaves his room. He knows the ins and outs of this place. He could probably walk blindfolded and end up where he wanted to anyway.

He's only bullshitting. He'd probably run into a glass wall first.

There's a dim light coming from the kitchen and he's about to bolt despite the fact that he technically owns the building, but it's only Rhodey.

"Middle of the night cravings, honeybear?" Tony says, making a disapproving noise and shaking his head, even if he could cry from relief.

Rhodey gives him the stink eye before he laughs. "Shut up and join me."

"What are we having here, huh?" Tony says, elbows Rhodey lightly, gets his face too close to the pint of ice cream, does his best to be annoying as fuck. "I'll see your midnight treat and raise you cookies," he says cocking an eyebrow, making for the cupboard.

"Are you trying to kill us?" Rhodey protests in the weakest of ways, asks if they truly need more calories, says there are already cookies in there.

"Yeah, but not these," Tony says. He turns them into crumbs and gets himself a spoon, makes for the back stool opposite to Rhodey so they can have a go at the ice cream without getting in each other's way, and once they're all settled, they eat with gusto straight from the carton. They make terrible choices. It's almost like they're back at college.

He puts the earpiece in one of the pockets of his sweatpants, ignoring the guitar solo, and asks, "You okay?"

Rhodey nods. "I got honest to God hungry. Are _you_ okay?"

Tony shrugs, then smiles. "Well, I'm okay now. I've got you."

"We've got each other," Rhodey says with a straight face, and Tony honestly loves this man. He could count the ways. "What you've been up to?"

"Nothing. Avoiding people, mostly," Tony says like that's part of his daily routine, the first thing he sets out to do right after coffee. _How Not to Cross Paths with Steve Rogers: A Handbook._

Rhodey snorts, then props his chin with one hand, and uh-oh, he's thinking. It would probably be in Tony's best interest to locate the nearest exit and run, not walk, but it's Rhodey. Tony could never bring himself to do it.

"You know you don't owe it to him to forgive him, don't you?" Rhodey says.

"Who are we talking about again?" Tony feigns ignorance while he takes that in. Upon seeing Rhodey's unimpressed look, he says, "Yeah, I know I don't."

"You also don't have to keep him at an arm's length if that's not what you want," he adds, and that's new. Does it really matter what Tony wants? "I'm just saying, at this point, do whatever makes you happy. You deserve it."

Tony smirks. "Do I, honeybear?"

Rhodey's smile is warm and genuine like he hasn't had to put up with Tony's shit for decades. "Yeah. Yeah, you do. I'm a firm believer. And now do us all a favor and get some rest."

"You're such a nag," Tony says, pointing at him with his spoon before he takes off.

He, of course, ends up ignoring Rhodey's well-meaning advice and goes to the lab, spins on his favorite swivel chair, makes pinpoints of blue light follow the quick motion of his fingers. It's easier to think things through well past bedtime, just before daybreak comes.

"FRIDAY, you there?" Tony asks as if he didn't know the answer beforehand.

" _What are we building, boss?_ "

He draws concentric circles in the air, no star on the front. "We're Force-users today, Fry."

She does an approximation of a laugh and says, " _Oh._ "

 

 

He finds Steve in the gym, ruining punching bag after punching bag. He knows, because Nat and Sam have told him, that Steve's been doing this on the regular, hiding here every afternoon the way Tony holes up in his lab when there's nothing pressing to see to. He knows, thanks to FRIDAY, that he's been at it for hours today, that it fits a pattern instead of being the exception to the rule.

Steve hasn't noticed him yet, so Tony allows himself to watch how his skin is glistening with sweat, how his muscles stretch and ripple under the t-shirt he's wearing, some flimsy, ridiculous thing that looks like it's been painted directly on him. He wonders if Steve's body is running hot, just how much, and he wants to press a hand between his shoulder blades and find out, and then see whether Steve takes a swing at him or stills under his touch.

These are dangerous thoughts to have.

Another bag kicks the bucket, sand spurting and splattering like something out of a crime scene, and maybe Tony should fear Steve's strength and the way he doesn't pull his punches here, having been on the receiving end of it, but he doesn't. He understands the whole not giving yourself an inch too well, the impulse to wreck yourself.

Steve breathes through his nose, his hands open and close into fists, his body quivers. He goes to get another bag, which seems like a bad idea even for him, and that's the moment Tony chooses to clear his throat. Steve drops the bag, startles. He turns around, lips parted, and Tony, who's mastered the art of making a great entrance, steps away from the wall he's been leaning against in one fluid motion, catlike, and says in a magnanimous tone, "You wanted to spar."

"How long you've been—? I'm not—" He fumbles for words. It's almost cute.

"Interested?" Tony says, narrowing his eyes at him and crossing his arms.

Steve should say no. He's more beat-up than Tony expected to find him, weary with some kind of bone-deep tiredness that he can read in the way Steve holds himself, that reminds him of how he looked after his first time in D.C., after they found Barnes. Tony has a small fix for that, not something that amounts to much, but something that may help.

But first things first.

"No, I— Whatever you want, Tony," Steve says softly, and what a weird thing to say that is. He's the one who wanted this in the first place, not Tony, but it serves the purpose he came here to accomplish, so he lets it slide.

"Okay, ground rules so this doesn't evolve into Celebrity Deathmatch," Tony says.

"You come at me, I block," Steve says. With the right kind of expression, he would sound like a conceited jackass, but he only looks mildly sad.

"You don't want to throw punches of your own," Tony says in disbelief. "Because you sure looked like you were up for more just a moment ago, Rogers."

Steve shrugs one shoulder, sets his jaw. "It's fine this way."

Tony wants to be a jerk and say _Well, it isn't fine with me,_ and then spin on his heel and go, but maybe this is not such a bad idea, not when he doesn't really know if he could take it, Steve being as gentle as he was with those punching bags. He tells himself he's not a giant loser for accepting this, for wanting to take it slow, and maybe he doesn't quite believe it, but it's not like not believing in himself ever stopped him from doing things.

They begin.

He's aware of his own body, of Steve's body in close proximity to his. He doesn't think of Siberia but there's a nervous laugh wanting to bubble up out of him all the same, so he looks at the way Steve's pants hang from his hips. _Not Cap, just Steve,_ Tony tells himself. Steve and his one-size-too-small shirts and his ridiculous waist-to-shoulder ratio, and the way he would smile obnoxiously in the mornings like a true early bird, sun glinting off his wet hair because he was fresh from taking a shower.

It takes his mind off some things, makes it have a razor-sharp focus on others.

They go at it slow, as they agreed. His forearm hits the back of Steve's raised hand, and Steve's fingers wrap around the knob of Tony's wrist, a brief touch. One of his fists connects with Steve's palm. Another punch sails past, and because it's expected, he doesn't stumble. Because it's expected, it doesn't egg him on that Steve moves out of the way as gracefully as he does. Tony corrects his stance and strikes again, and now he's the one who's grabbing Steve's wrist, and arm extended past Steve's shoulder in what could have been a hit if he had wanted.

They exchange a look over Tony's arm. Steve lowers his eyes first.

There's no anger behind each punch, but Tony starts to strike like he means it, counting on Steve to move, to counter, to shield himself. And then, when he doesn't, Tony's left feeling how his knuckles land on Steve's cheek, making his skin turn red and warm to touch. 

Steve blinks, nods once.

"Shouldn't you have blocked that easily?" Tony asks.

"Things on my mind," Steve says, squaring his shoulders.

Tony shrugs like it isn't any of his business. "Okay."

It happens one more time, and then another. Each time, no matter what, Steve barely reacts. An anomaly.

"If you wanted me to use you as a punching bag, you should've said so when you first got here, when you could've been useful," Tony says, and now he's getting angry. What the hell is wrong with Steve?

"It's—"

"If you say _It's fine_ again, I'm gonna—" Tony says, but what can he possibly threaten Steve with? Punching him again? Instead, he changes tactics. "Think fast."

He takes the prototype from his pocket and throws it at Steve, who catches it effortlessly.

Steve stares at what's in his hands. Tony knows it looks like a wristwatch, but timepieces and home appliances are rarely just that when it comes to Tony. "What is it?"

"Come on, I know you're smart. Figure it out."

Steve gives him a look that Tony doesn't want to read as wary because he's never stopped trusting Steve where it counts, when the safety of the world is at stake, but if Steve still thinks Tony is an untrustworthy piece of shit, then he doesn't know why he's even trying.

After letting out a shuddering breath, Steve puts on the watch, taps the screen for a short while, produces what looks like the hologram of his shield, only it's real.

"A hard light shield," Tony says, and then rolls his eyes as he adds, "SHIELD had something like it, but this is better." He made it to withstand a lot of shit, including a repulsor beam, but it would be more than fine by him if easing them into talking is the only thing it's good for. R&D to break the ice.

Steve whispers, "Is this for—"

"I'm not taking your old shield and giving you this instead, it's just— See, you can use it as your own nightlight if you wish," Tony says, calling the suit, only the boots and one gauntlet, enough to fly. "And now we give it a test drive."

Steve looks up, and there's more than just wariness, isn't it? If Tony didn't know any better, he would call it fear. "Tony."

"It'll just be one test, Steve. Relax about it. We won't slip into full-out carnage mode."

Steve nods, but he's still holding himself stiffly. "All right."

"Heads up," Tony says, and coming from above, he punches the shield with all he's got. It's like Leipzig, except for how it's nothing like it. He can see Steve's eyes through the shield, the way they go wide, a ring of white enclosing blue like a goddamn atoll. The shield holds up, of course it does. Tony lands without effort. Steve makes the shield disappear and flops down, breathing hard.

He waits for him to get back to his feet, but Steve remains there, sitting on the floor long after he's caught his breath. It's odd to tower over him like this, but it's better than the opposite. "We need to talk," he says. Trite, but he doesn't know how else to phrase it. "It's overdue. There are things I need to know. Things I need you to listen."

"And you want to have this conversation now," Steve says in a low whisper, words flat, no inflection. It's not even flippant, it's the furthest thing from it, but Tony can't help bristling.

"If you truly were as regretful as you say you are, you would give me answers. You would tell me the truth, at least—"

"Shoot," Steve says, looking down, shoulders slumped.

"I'm trying to understand," Tony says with a shrug, hands stuffed in his pockets. Inside them, he runs his thumb along his knuckles, up and down and back again. "I've had people act like they cared before, only to realize it was all lies, often too late. And if that keeps happening, then it's on me, right? I'm the common denominator."

"No," Steve says, clenching his hands into fists. "No, that's not on you, Tony. How could that ever be your fault?"

"Then I just don't get it. Have I ever told you how much I hate not getting things?" Tony says, and he's trying to arrange his face into a smile; it's a compulsion, and maybe he should have done this in the suit, behind an actual mask. "I know I didn't rank high in your list of priorities and that was fine, I don't see why I should have, but I still expected better from you. You were always all about doing what's right, so even if I didn't matter enough—" 

"But you did! You do. You do matter," Steve says, and Tony tries his best to pretend he didn't hear that.

" _Even if I didn't,_ you could have done the decent thing and told me the truth. That's what I thought. That's what I've been trying to grapple with, that I didn't even deserve that from you."

"Tony—"

"I thought I knew you," Tony speaks over him, because he needs Steve to listen. "I thought I could rely on certain things being true about you and I was wrong."

Steve takes this the way he's taken every hit before, without protesting. He looks smaller somehow, curled into himself. It's a terrible look on him and Tony hates it more than he can bear, but he presses on.

"And then you go," he says, laughing, "you go and do things that defy the idea that you don't give a fuck. And then I think—I think I can buy it, that you care in your own way, even if I still can't wrap my head around it. So Steve, if you do, tell me what I need to know. Since when?"

He narrowed it down to a specific date much before Steve and the others came back, he just needs the confirmation. It's been on his mind ever since Steve dropped the shield and left, and even though closure is grossly overrated, he still needs to hear it from him. _Give me this, at least,_ he thinks. _Don't try to lie to my face again._

"D.C.," Steve says. Jackpot.

"So you saw the footage, I'm guessing. You saw it and decided to keep it to yourself. Because you thought I would leave no stone unturned until I found Barnes and, what, slit his throat in his sleep? Is that what you—"

"What? No, Tony, that's not how it went—"

"I never found it in those files, Steve. After the fall of SHIELD. So tell me now, was that a coincidence?" Tony says, and he's a dumb fuck. Never ask questions if you can't stomach the answers.

"I never saw that footage before, Tony! I didn't even know it existed. Zola, he— Camp Lehigh," Steve says, passing a hand through his hair, pulling at it. "Zola saved his mind on databanks located just under Camp Lehigh. He said things, showed us part of his archive. A newspaper clipping about Howard's death. A picture of the Winter Soldier right afterwards. He spoke of accidents not being accidents. I didn't want to believe it, to see the link. I couldn't."

"You never saw it," Tony repeats like a fucking parrot, and it's not much, it's only crumbs at this point, nothing that should make a difference, but it almost feels like he can breathe a little easier.

"If I had known what that was about, I would have punched the screen before you had a chance to see it," Steve says, and his voice is rough, so damn rough, like he's running out of air, like he's doing his best not to break down and he's not quite succeeding, and even after all the things he's done, Tony doesn't want to see it. Steve shattering into pieces because of him. "I should have, I should have realized it. I stood there like an idiot. I'm sorry. I couldn't react in time. I'm so sorry."

"If you had seen it, would you have kept it from me?" Tony asks, and this isn't about the truth anymore. Now he's just asking Steve to tell him what he wants to hear, to make him feel better, and it's pathetic of him. His dad would agree, and because he's a sorry idiot who hasn't learned not to make his happiness contingent on the actions of a single person, it feels like death when Steve doesn't reply right away. He takes a deep breath and presses the heel of his hand against his chest so that little fucker of a heart he has stops beating erratically. " _Steve._ "

"I—" Steve looks like a deer caught in highlights, and all Tony wants is to get the hell out of here and slam the door on his way out. It's childish, petty, ridiculous, and he still wants to do it. "I have to believe that if I had known for sure, I would have found a way to tell you. But still. _Still._ I would have never wanted you to see that. That's not a lie. I would have done everything in my power to spare you that. If I had known. If I—" 

He sounds desperate, and Tony doesn't want to hear it. He doesn't want this, from Steve, but he's still not above kicking him while he's down, because the next thing that comes out of his mouth is, "Everything? You could have made it easier on me if you had just told me, but you didn't, so I'm not so sure about that." 

It doesn't feel fair at this point. He doesn't even feel angry enough to warrant it, even if it feels like he should, and he knows, he _knows_ that treating Steve like shit won't fix anything. It won't make things hurt any less, it won't make his nightmares go away, it won't turn back time. All of Tony's pain, all of Steve's regret, and there's fuck all they can do. 

Steve winces. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't want to lose you over that. Things would have changed for good, as they did. I thought it was a lie. I thought I was sparing you. I thought I was finally able to do something for you. I thought I was making the right call. I thought, I'll just find Bucky, I'll find out the truth, and then things will be fine. I didn't think far ahead, clearly," he says, letting out a harsh laugh.

Enough. It's enough. He doesn't want this. He hates it when Steve is sad, hates the price he's had to pay just because he wanted so badly to serve, hates that he's been torn away from everything he knew and everyone he ever loved, hates that the world has only taken and taken without giving him a fucking break; he hates so many things that he's angry again, only on Steve's behalf.

He wants to be gentle. God, please let him be gentle.

"It's not that I can't ever forgive you. Is that it feels like I have to be careful. It's that getting hurt fucking blows and I don't want to risk it, do you understand?"

"Should I go?" Steve asks very softly. "If it makes it easier for you, then—"

"Do you want to go," Tony says, and no, it's not surprising that he's that easy to leave behind. Again.

"No, Tony, but if you—"

"Then don't fucking go, Steve! Why is that your answer to everything? I didn't say it was impossible, I said it was difficult. Have some patience for once in your life! Or you know what, just leave if that's what you want. Whatever. It's not like I can stop you."

"I want to stay!" Steve shouts, then deflates in a matter of seconds. "I want to stay."

"If it had been me instead, if I had lied to you about something like this, I'm absolutely certain you would have never forgiven me, so maybe give me a break," Tony says, and then he tries to breathe, he tries to calm the fuck down, but even trying feels like too much. He's just exhausted, wrung out. He needs someone to knock him out and let him blink out of existence for a few hours. Maybe Steve could do him a solid. _God._

"Look, I don't want you to grovel. It's not a good look on anyone, I should know. Besides, I get the feeling you wouldn't be any good at it. You would get angry halfway," Tony says, and he has to bite his cheek not to smile, not even a little, because a part of him is still fond of Steve and his antics, he's more than just fond, and he doesn't want to let it show. "What I came here to say, one of the things I wanted to say, anyway, is that you'll always have a place to return to. I know, the tower was supposed to be that for the lot of you, but there's the compound now."

"What about the tower?" Steve asks, and isn't this just like _What about Wanda?_ and Tony wants to cry, he wants to scream. Why can't they ever share a nice peaceful moment without it going down the fucking toilet?

"What, were you living under a rock during all that time you were prancing around, saving the world single-handedly? I sold it. And don't give me that look. You never even liked it. You hated it. It was an affront to your artistic sensibilities, an aberration of architecture, an eyesore. Come on. You lived there for only a couple of months anyway."

"I didn't hate it," Steve whispers. "And I never said those things."

"Well, it's not mine anymore. It's done, no takesies backsies," Tony says, and although he's itching to add, _I wish you had told me you didn't hate it,_ he doesn't. He's grown. He's a better man than he was 0.05 seconds ago. "As I was saying, you'll always have somewhere to stay. I'm not saying a home. I can't give you that, that's something you build together, and we never— So, not a home, but an actual place you can go back to if you want, a roof over your head, something you can count on having, no matter what. And if you wanted to end up somewhere else, if there's something else you ever need, that can be arranged too."

"Why?"

Tony blinks. "Why what."

"Why would you offer that to me?"

"Why not."

"Tony."

"Because I don't want you to have a hard time, okay? Because your life hasn't been easy for too long already, and I hate it. You don't have to accept it. It's just an option you'll always have because I want it that way, because I say so."

Steve lets out a shuddering thing of a laugh, shoulders shaking. He doesn't stop shaking, and Tony wants to reach out and place one hand on top of Steve's head. He wants to sit on the floor, next to Steve, to hold him and tell him things will be fine, and it's ridiculous. Steve doesn't need him, not like this. He doubts he ever has.

"You're such a child sometimes," Steve says, and Tony can't even find it in him to be mad because his voice is fond. It's an outlier, and there's no conclusion to be made from a single data point. His smiles, his looks, his touch, one kiss or two.

Outliers.

"Yeah? Well, you aren't any better," Tony says, but there's little fight left in him at this point.

"Tony, where did we go wrong?" Steve asks. It's barely a whisper. His eyes are bright and set on him. "I feel like we went wrong somewhere, and I don't know how it happened, how I let it, how."

Tony takes a deep breath. He can easily think of things that would make everything worse, that would ruin everything. Gestures that are easy to misread, the wrong thing to say, but said on purpose, or even the kind of silence that lasts too long. Smaller points of no return. Enough of those, and not even Steve would keep on trying.

He should want that more than anything. It would keep him safe for good.

"Maybe it was from the beginning," he offers. Steve shakes his head, covering the watch with his long fingers, clutching it, and Tony could just _not_ care and say something like _You and me, Rogers, I don't think we were ever going to make sense._ He could say their fight in the helicarrier was them distilled to their essence, what they've always thought about each other, deep down.

He could do it. He could lie through his teeth and do it, and it would be easy as pie.

Except he doesn't feel like it.

"I mean, I was an asshole, right? I fit the bill for the kind of person you thought I was, the one you read about, I made it all real. I picked on you, I mocked you, and it wasn't your fault, whatever hang-ups I had about you growing up. You were fresh from the ice and I could have been a little more—"

Tactful. Welcoming. Gentle. He could have been so many things, and all he settled for was the role of a jerk.

"Like you were with Bruce?" Steve whispers, and then he bites his lips and shakes his head, and oh, Steve. "It's—I think I needed to get angry at someone. I'm sorry it was you, that I took it out on you. But I still needed it. And well, it was refreshing not to be seen as some kind of living legend from the get go." He tries for a laugh, but none of it reaches his eyes.

"It still wasn't fair to you. I wasn't," Tony says, and this is one more thing he's sorry for, and he doesn't know how to make up for it. He tried, he really did, but something tells him that Steve never really stopped thinking of him that way, even if he won't admit it. First impressions are everything. He had a chance and he blew it.

Steve shrugs, smiles. "Maybe I could have used a friend. I wanted to be yours, to be your friend from the start, but I shouldn't have expected you to take a liking to me just because I once knew your father. It was the opposite, actually, I just had no clue."

"I liked you," Tony says. He remembers how it was to work together with him for the first time, how reluctantly fond he'd been of him— _It seems to run on some form of electricity,_ he'd said—and when he realized Steve was getting shot at, how angry he'd felt, how scared, and then how relieved, once he was safe.

"You hated me. You said it. It's fine," Steve says, even if it's clearly not the case. "Do you still— No, never mind."

"I don't hate you, Steve." It's the truth. He doesn't. He did his best, but it didn't stick.

Steve looks down and nods and doesn't seem like he believes it. "You drove me up the wall," he says, and then he's chuckling. "It made me angry how full of yourself you seemed, and how that was justified because you were terrifyingly brilliant. How flippant you were, how it looked like you didn't give a single damn about anything, except you did, you cared too much. You don't know what it was like to see you go through that wormhole. I thought you were gone. I thought you were gone and it knocked the wind out of me. I had never been this wrong about someone."

"Steve." He calls his name because he doesn't know what else to say. He's out of words.

"I'm sorry I always ended up butting heads with you, that I didn't know how to talk to you, even when I wanted us to be closer."

"We were like oil and water. Both of us being in the same team was always going to be difficult." _It didn't have to. We could have been so much more._ "We worked in the field, but anything else was always going to be fraught with bumps on the road, with your short temper and my ego," Tony says, and it's like reading from cue cards, one fake smile plastered on his face, but at least he knows how to do this. He learned to do it as soon as he could talk.

"That's not true," Steve says, but it's only a whisper. Maybe he's only trying to convince himself.

"It probably was brewing all this time, don't you think? We wanted to beat the shit out of each other not long after we met, and then we did, and it's—" He can't say it's fine. He just can't. "We can move past it. We can work together. We have. We can, well, I think we could be friends, one day. It's just that anything else is a bad idea."

Steve shakes his head. "Tony."

"What happened between us the other day, that was—"

A mistake, except he can't say it. It could have been different. No killer robots, no world under danger thanks to Tony and his fucking fears and maybe they could have had this. Steve was already keeping secrets, but maybe he would have found it in him to tell Tony the truth, to say _There's something I need to tell you_ instead of _Sometimes my teammates don't tell me things._ If Ultron had never existed, maybe he would have. Now they'll never know. 

"It was my bad," Tony says, picking up where he left off. "Sorry. But I think you should just ignore it. Forget it, if you haven't already."

Steve sucks in a breath, but that's nothing. It doesn't mean a thing.

"The other thing I meant to say is, there's this law firm. They took an interest in Barnes' case. They want to see what can be done, pro-bono. I took the liberty to give them your number. They should contact you soon, and it's not like you ever listen to me, but I think you should take them on the offer. They actually have a good track record with this kind of things, so there's a good chance he can come back home to you one day, cleared from everything. That's it."

Silence falls. Sometimes things end with a whimper.

Tony is about to walk away when Steve says, " _Why_ are you like this?"

He turns to face him full-on, and isn't that something? Now's the moment Steve decides to get back on his feet and give Tony the whole _I can do this all day_ shtick, jaw locked, shoulders squared, hands clenched into fists, and Tony doesn't know what the fuck did he do wrong this time.

"Like this _how?_ " Tony all but yells, and he's so fucking tired, and he feels stupid for believing they could be something other than this. _It was a mistake,_ he wants to say. _You and I, we were always going to be a mistake._

"Good," Steve says, _smiling,_ all tension gone from him like he just did a 180 degree turn at full speed on a whim, and Tony doesn't know what the hell just happened, but he's getting whiplash. "You're a good man."

"Did you miss the part where I almost _murdered_ your best friend? Not to mention everything else I ever did?" 

"You're a good man, Tony," Steve says, undeterred, because when has anyone ever been able to change Steve Rogers' stupid mind about anything, really. "You're good, and you make it impossible to ignore, and I know I have to let you walk away right now, because you need your space, even if all I want is to chase after you."

Tony stays there, stunned into silence for one second too long, for one billion of them. "Don't forget to talk with the lawyers," he hears himself say like an idiot, and then he turns his back on him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _All he wants is to hide somewhere and lick his wounds, but the thing is, he's never known when to give up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wanted to wrap up this fic before Infinity War, but it's just not in the cards. Anyway, this chapter kept getting longer and longer, so I thought I would post what I have and leave it on a hopeful note for a change. Thanks to ishipallthings for her help with pesky sentences and writing-induced moodiness!
> 
> The ending of the short story _The Nine Billion Names of God_ by Arthur C. Clarke is mentioned, if you care about that sort of thing.

He gets the news about Steve's reinstatement late on a Saturday, much before it will make it to the press. It's no heard-through-the-grapevine nonsense, it's official. There's a scanned document on his phone, all relevant signatures and seals of approval there, none missing, and even though he's sure it's legit, he checks everything for a second time, and then a third.

Eventually, his thumb stops on Steve's full name, _Steven Grant Rogers._ He follows the curve of the letters from beginning to end as if it were part of a ritual, something for good luck, the way he once traced the lines of one of Steve's old sketches when no one was looking.

His mother used to touch things like that, like they held meaning. Old photobooks, a fabric cut from one of her favorite dresses from the time she was a young girl, empty perfume bottles, mementos. His father used to call it setting a bad example and a waste of time, and then he would go and keep a shrine out of all the things that reminded him he had once been a better man.

Tony has inherited both the sentimentality and the hypocrisy, but right now, in private, he doesn't bother to hide the affection behind this small gesture. He holds it close, the shape of his name, and then he lets go as if the impulse had never been there. He closes the document, checks performance reports he had lined up since earlier, and there, set against the brightness of his phone, he notices grease he failed to clean from under his fingernails before he headed for SI headquarters.

He's too many persons at once, perhaps. He alternates between ratty band t-shirts and silk shirts paired with tailor-made suits. He's inventor, superhero, businessman, spokesperson, part-time failure. He's tired and disheveled, sleeves rolled up, collar undone, tie either stuffed in one of his pockets or maybe hidden behind some throw pillow. It's been a long day, too many such days in a row over the course of some very long months, and this, the thing that split the team in two, is now a checkmark in his to-do list. Something done and dealt with.

There's probably finely aged scotch in one of the cabinets, but Tony ignores it in favor of leaning back against his chair, closing his eyes, and taking a breath. He thinks of telling FRIDAY to rely the message before he dozes off, but in the end he asks whether Steve's home, gets up, and walks however many steps separate his office from Steve's bedroom. 

He knocks on the door and waits, shifting his weight on his right foot and then on his left. "He wasn't sleeping yet, was he?" he asks FRIDAY just as Steve opens the door, takes a look at Tony, and smiles that easy, genuine smile Tony has always liked on him, one he has to rein in once he remembers what Tony said, probably. _Forget it,_ those were his exact words, and Tony, the hypocrite, hasn't been able to stop thinking about it.

"You're cleared for active duty. It's official," Tony says, showing him his phone.

"Oh, that's good. That's good, Tony," Steve says softly, stealing a glance at Tony rather than reading the document properly. Their eyes meet, and Steve looks down and pretends to focus on what he has in front of him. He hums and says, "Yeah, that's very good," and Tony takes advantage of the fact that he's distracted to take him in. He's got a book in one hand, one of his fingers parting the pages as a bookmark; he's barefoot and wearing jeans and a black sweater that hugs his figure, and he looks good, comfortable, easy to lean against.

Tony takes one step forward, then regrets it. "Yeah. I just thought I would give you a heads up."

"Thank you," Steve says, lips set in a soft curve, and Tony would tell him to stop doing whatever he thinks he's doing, except he likes him like this, happy.

Below his fake sternum, his heartbeat picks up. There's a different kind of awareness now whenever he looks at Steve, a humming sound he can't turn off, sweet and mellow, like hearing a song he knows by heart from the next room over.

_All I want is to chase after you._

It's just words. Steve has taken a bullet for him, has bled for him, but it's something he would have done even if he didn't give a damn about Tony, even if they had been strangers. That's the kind of thing he does. It's in the tin and these are _just_ words, and Tony has always known he's like a stray dog left to starve; throw him a bone and he'll think of it as a feast, be a little sweet and give him scraps of affection, and you'll have him eating from your hand. If Howard Stark had been at least half-decent as a father, these would be problems he wouldn't have, especially not where Captain America is concerned, and Steve—

Steve has speck-sized moles you only notice from up close, on the side of his nose, and his cheek, and alongside his throat, a path he could trace with his fingers, with his mouth, and right about now, there should be alarms going off, lights blinking red overhead and a giant billboard flashing _Careful, careful, you've been burned before, be careful you fucking idiot,_ but because it's stupid o'clock and his guard is down, Tony says, "So whatcha got there."

"Ah," Steve says, showing him the book. It lies flat on the palm of his hand so that Tony can take it from him if he wants to. He does.

" _The Nine Billion Names of God,_ " Tony reads, flicks through it, picks up the slight sandpaper feel of the pages, notices the stamp that tells him it's a library loan. "Did you read the title story yet?"

Steve nods, his eyes bright. " _There is always a last time for everything,_ " he says from memory.

"The end of the world," Tony whispers as if this were a concept far removed from their reality and not something they have hanging over their heads as they speak. If it were them at the end of the world, stars going out, wouldn't he be a little less careful?

He returns the book, Steve gives him back his phone, and they don't touch.

"I didn't know you read sci-fi," Tony says instead of leaving.

"You got me hooked. I mean, the books. The books you gave me. I started from there, didn't stop," Steve says, and not for the first time, Tony wonders what kind of things have always been there without him being any wiser.

"I used to like fantasy books. Still do. I brought a couple with me to camp, back then. Half of what I brought were books, mostly military treatises. I had few things, anyway, so they fit in the same case, the clothes and the books," Steve says with a sheepish smile, and a part of Tony wants to cup his face and say he's sorry he wasn't able to fix all the things that were never in his power to fix because he didn't even exist at the time, and then give him anything he asks for, anything he wants. Impulses, that's all they are. Things to hold, and then release, and pretend they never happened.

Seeing the look on Tony's face, Steve hurries to add, "I know, fantasy and sci-fi aren't quite the same thing. I just liked to imagine impossible things being possible. I guess it figures, else I wouldn't have dared to think someone like me could make a difference. My imagination pales next to yours, though."

Tony doesn't mean to, but he smiles. _Smirks._ He doesn't know what his face is doing, but there's a tug on the corner of his lips. "I guess we'll talk shop tomorrow."

"Yeah." Before he retreats to his room, Steve whispers, "Good night, Tony."

Tony nods, walks a few steps and then half-turns. "Good night," he says, and Steve's door, ajar until then, closes softly.

 

 

Steve has a few ideas he wants to share before he goes to wrap things up in D.C. Tag teams and team building exercises and the like. It's supposed to strengthen their bond as a unit even though they managed to save the world from HYDRA's clutches just fine last time, all while acting like the dysfunctional, disobliging, unrepentant assholes they can easily become when their buttons are pressed. Still, Tony knows Steve has a point, but he feels like being a little shit today for no particular reason, so he holds the list away from him like it's an offending thing.

"Are you sure I can trust you with Rhodey?"

"I'm trusting Sam with you," Steve says, letting out a sigh while staring into his eyes, and shit, Tony wasn't prepared for this.

"Me, Sam, and Redwing," Tony says. He doesn't croak but it's a close thing, and although that's annoying all on its own, it's also as far as it goes. He isn't ticked-off, not really, not lately. He looks for that familiar pressure ballooning inside his chest, but he finds nothing.

He should be angry. He should be nothing short of furious at how fast the tables have turned, but he's only scared. A careless choice of words and he's _gone,_ and this is stupid. _Hand on heart, Rogers, did you mean it?_ he wants to ask. _You left. You left me. How can you possibly mean it?_

Steve nods, obviously not to the question Tony had in mind. "Yes," he says with a smile. He's doing this smiling thing all the time, largely unchecked. Someone should stop him.

_I can think of at least one way to do just that,_ Tony thinks, looking at Steve's lips. Inwardly, he swears. "And Sam knows."

"Yes."

"And he didn't question his life choices, which led him to this very moment."

He gets a laugh out of Steve. "No, Tony, he didn't."

"Okay. Then I should go looking for him or something," Tony says, shrugging and puffing his cheek with the tip of his tongue like this is the casual exchange it's supposed to be, taking measured steps away from him instead of calling the suit and flying at a speed over Mach 5 like he truly wants to.

This is getting out of control.

 

 

"Ready when you're ready," Tony says.

Sam nods his way and says, "Ready when FRIDAY is." 

" _I'm always ready,_ " FRIDAY quips, and the simulation begins near instantly. The targets move fast, they dash towards and around them without following a discernible pattern, but it's not much of a problem once they work out how best to approach the issue without getting in each other's way. 

They're both flyers, but their styles are vastly different. For all that Tony loves how fast he can go in his suit—not fast enough, not _before,_ but he's made a few improvements since then—he can also appreciate the way Sam glides as if his wings were an extension of his body, and how he works gravity in his favor, letting go and freefalling if he needs to, only to soar afterwards.

"Jealous?" Sam asks with a cocky grin after he notices the way Tony is tracking his flightpath.

Tony smirks behind his faceplate and says, "As if," voice carrying amusement, but there's still something about Sam's exo-suit that draws him in, so much closer to the bare-bones mechanics of flying. To humbler beginnings, the desire of men to conquer the skies. 

"I did think of a few things we could tweak, however," Tony says as he knocks a glowing orb darting along Sam's wingspan.

"I'm all ears," Sam says, returning the favor by shielding his flank from the ensuing explosion of light, smaller bursts strung together that remind him of a miniature Jericho.

They have to chase the next few ones. He and Sam approach the cluster from different positions at once, each target getting away from them in a race towards the platform below, and the familiarity is a spike on his pulse, an itch below his skin he can't pinpoint easily.

He'll call Rhodey after this, just to hear his voice and ask him if he wants to do lunch tomorrow, to put a stop to the way his stomach is tying into knots at the thought of him being nearly gone, but for now he's got this. He gulps and strikes down whatever is in his line of sight, and he's precise, he doesn't waver, his gauntlets don't shake even if his fingers twitch twice before they still.

"I'll get the others," Sam says, and then he dives, kicks a target and fires at another, lands and folds his wings in one single motion, and Tony thinks of reaction times and how his wings could spread and fold much faster, how lighter they could be without compromising their shielding factor.

The simulation ends. Sam takes off his goggles and looks into the distance.

"Listen, that day," he starts.

"If you're talking about the day I think you're talking about, there's no need," Tony says, waving a hand and retracting his helmet and interrupting Sam all in the same breath, not so much because he likes to hear the sound of his own voice, although he can see why people tend to think that way, but because he often wants to make it easier on others, even if in the process he ends up making it worse.

He wants to say it, _Shit happens,_ cruel and blunt and painful as it sounds, but he can't do it. Rhodey doesn't deserve it, he was the least deserving of this kind of fuckery, and yet it still happened. All kinds of shit happen around the world and sometimes there's absolutely nothing you can do about it, and it keeps you up at night, the fact that you can't take every single variable into account, include it into a predictable model, and fix the ramifications thereof before it's too late.

"No, I want to say it. I'm sorry."

"You said it then. I'm sorry I didn't act, well, I wasn't being very, you know, open to—" Tony says, elaborating with his eyebrows because speaking about this in complete sentences is somehow above his skillset, at least right now.

"I told him too. And it's fine, I get it. When something like that happens, the least thing you want to do is listen to the guy who's to blame."

"It wasn't your fault," Tony says, because that's the one thing he knows for sure. He fights the urge to say _It was mine_ even if it's there in the back of his mind, because then Rhodey would appear out of nowhere expressly to kick his ass while going _There's such a thing as free will, Stank, and I made my own choices,_ and that ass-kicking would be richly deserved.

"He said that, too," Sam says with a small smile. "So many things that day were—"

" _Boss, sorry to interrupt, but your assistance is required,_ " FRIDAY says, and then she passes the information on—a collapsed apartment building on the East Side. He calls back his helmet so that he can have better access to the feeds.

"Tony," Steve's voice echoes through the comms, and although he doesn't will it, a thrill goes down his spine. He remembers how it used to feel, to be secure in the knowledge that he had him at his side, ready to face whatever the world threw their way, together. He's missed it like hell.

"On it, Steve, don't worry. Sam and I are already suited up, so we'll head in first. Peter is already on site," he says once he reads the message that just popped up on one corner of the HUD.

Sam nods. "Let's go."

"Wanda, Vision," Steve says, and Tony is already on his way to the hangar and replying, "Can lift heavy things, can go through things, sounds damn useful."

"It seems to be an accident, not something malicious. Still, be careful," Steve says, and Tony is hearing things because that's his Captain America voice all right, but there's still something about what he says last that sounds a touch softer and makes his heart ache.

"Will do," Tony says.

 

 

It's still Monday morning, which means not many people were home by the time it happened. On the way, Tony has already contacted the foundation to secure provisional housing for all tenants, so their only concern once they arrive is people trapped below the rubble.

"Mr. Stark!"

Peter finds him after helping an old lady, and he always sounds so young, even behind the mask. "Karen says it was a structural issue. There," he says, and he's pointing to the part that still stands, where the boundary between what must have been the original building and the stories at the top—an old addition, by the looks of it—is clearer now that everything has come apart.

They talk to first responders, who have already rescued some people and are currently diagnosing those injured on the spot and dispatching them to nearby hospitals, but they still need help. Redwing proves useful in narrow spaces. FRIDAY gives him a exploded view of one side of the building, and they manage to secure the area and free some others. _It's not too late,_ he tells himself, even if he knows the odds. At least they've got a chance.

" _Boss,_ " FRIDAY says.

There's still people trapped a few stories up, and while flying there isn't a problem, the rest seems to be.

"Hey," Tony says to two kids, a girl and a boy who look scared shitless, who are screaming. "Hey, it's okay," he repeats, trying to be soothing. He loses the helmet. The air smells of dust and plaster and something earthy, but there's nothing that even begins to resemble rotten eggs. FRIDAY confirms it. There's no gas leak.

"Are you guys hurt?"

In her attempt to reach out for him, the girl manages to flail a little and sock him in the eye through an opening in the pile of rubble that stands between them. Getting a black eye is a recurring thing for him ever since he took up superheroing, not really surprising. "I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Hey, no biggie. You've got a mean swing, you should be proud," he says, waiting for a bit before he can find it in himself to blink. "So, nothing hurts?"

They shake their heads.

"What are your names?" Tony asks them as he considers their options.

"Mary," the girl says with a sniffle. She's probably nine or ten; he's never been good at telling how old kids are. "This is my little brother, Jake."

"I'm not little," Jake says, and Tony laughs.

"I'm Tony. Do you guys like school?" There's a half-collapsed beam bearing the weight of the contiguous wall, so they're safe for now, but he can't reach out for them. The opening is not big enough for them to crawl out, and even if it were, he wouldn't want to risk it. There's fine dust falling from the roof nonstop, not a good sign, and he's still eyeing that beam with suspicion.

Jake makes a face. "I hate school."

"You know what? I used to hate it too. But I loved math." 

"I hate math too."

Mary shrugs. "I don't. It's cool."

"A fellow math geek," Tony says, letting a little wonder seep into his voice. "Do you like to draw, Jake? I have a friend who does."

Jake thinks about it for a while and then he smiles a little. "I like to draw bats."

"Hey, bats are great. Very enterprising mammals. They can fly all on their own to begin with, while we need a little help." He has to prop up the wall with something sturdier. He can do the job and set points of support the same way he did at ground level, but he needs someone else to look out for the kids. "Sam," he says, switching to comms.

"Who's that?" Mary says.

Behind him, Wanda is wrapped in a red mist, and _Jesus,_ what a good thing it was to get a warning first. "That's Wanda, kids. Wanda, these are Mary and Jake," Tony says.

Wanda nods. Her jaw is set and she can't stop looking at the kids. "What do I do?"

"Can you clear the rubble and keep everything from falling?" Tony asks, even if he knows for a fact that she can. She can make cars rain from the sky, she can do anything she sets her mind on.

She nods again.

"Okay, wait. Sam, Wanda is going to do some heavy lifting around here. We need to clear the area below, just in case. Let me know when it's safe."

"Got it," Sam replies.

"FRIDAY, do we have everyone else?"

" _Yes, boss. Vision made sure it was the case._ " Being able to go through things. A useful skill.

"Fantastic," Tony says, and as soon as Sam gives them the all clear, Wanda holds everything in place and creates a path so that Tony can scoop the kids up and take them to safety. There's a cloud of dust afterwards, but she helps it settle away from them, and it's highly unsettling but also breathtaking, how easily she can manipulate matter.

"Spider-Man," Mary gasps once she sees Peter, and then she bursts out crying.

"Oh hey," Peter says, kneeling in front of her. 

"Name's Mary," Tony whispers, taking a step back.

"It's okay, Mary. It's okay. This is like, well, it's like a superhero rite of passage!" Tony hears Peter say to her. He's rubbing her back, and tears are still falling from her eyes, but she's listening. "Me, and also Iron Man—"

"Tony," she corrects him, and Tony huffs a laugh.

"Yes, Tony. I went through something like it and Tony here did too, though you're perhaps too young to remember it."

Malibu.

"It's scary," Peter says, "and it sucks big time, but you're stronger now. It's okay."

Tony's throat goes a little dry. Shit happens.

Meanwhile, Jake is looking at Wanda. He reaches for her hand and she remains standing there, frozen, as if she didn't quite know what to do.

"Good job," he tells her, not that she needs to hear it from him.

But here's the thing, she smiles. It's not a full-blown smile or anything, and it's a little uncanny on her, but he finds himself smiling back nonetheless. _It's the little things,_ he thinks as he sees Jake's fingers wrapped tight around her wrist. Sometimes that's the only thing that keeps you going. She smiles at the kid and gives his hand a little squeeze before she says, "You're all right."

 

 

At some point it becomes clear that there's not much else they can do other than stand there looking pretty. Metaphorically speaking, anyway, because Tony's tired, sweaty, and probably has chunks of plaster in his hair.

People are getting the help they need and debris is already being cleared out of the way. Tony double checks and then he asks FRIDAY to monitor the situation, which includes doing some digging through old construction permits in case the neighboring buildings are in the same condition. Vision is, surprisingly, dealing with the press. His words have an air of formality to them that makes him sound like he's giving an official statement of sorts, but if there's someone they can trust not to run his mouth, that's him.

Sam joins him among the rubble, red and blue lights coloring the mixture of brick and concrete lying at their feet. "I just talked to Steve."

"Right," Tony says. Steve, who told him to be careful. _A friend who likes to draw._ He could have said he had a teammate, too, but _friend_ rolls easier off the tongue. It's not like he was going to explain to a seven-year old about how he used to have a friend, but then they fought and now he doesn't even know what they are to each other anymore. He doesn't think it matters, anyway. Sometimes words are just that.

"Man, you look terrible," Sam says, laughing at him even though he doesn't look so hot himself. Tony raises an eyebrow. "Hungry?"

"Why, do you know a place?" Tony asks.

Sam gives him a slow nod. "I know a place. My treat."

The place turns out to be a pizza parlor, and it's just Sam and him. Peter had to head back to his aunt's, Wanda and Vision probably had a date.

"The real deal," Sam tells him because he seems to remember the fancy pizza fiasco, which Tony now associates to even more horrible memories thanks to the fact that Steve got shot just after lunch. But this pizza is actually very good, so he's more than willing to make new memories. The sauce is fresh, the cheese is melting in his mouth, the crust is one wonderful crisp thing, and it sounds silly, but he feels alive.

"Fuck me, this is good," Tony says, and Sam chuckles at that.

There's a lull in the conversation and Tony should be paying more attention to his surroundings, perhaps. He's got a good vantage point. He can easily see through the window where the parlor's name has been styled to look hand-drawn. People walk by, cars drive by, nothing looks particularly suspicious or bordering on catastrophe Final Destination-style, and he's so damn tired of always feeling like he has to be on high alert, anyway.

"Listen, that time back in Germany," Sam starts again.

"Aw, come on," Tony says, because can't one man enjoy his food in peace? But Sam seems to be the type of guy who tells it like it is and doesn't keep things to himself if he doesn't see the need, so Tony steels himself while he takes one annoyed bite out of his pizza.

"Not that day, earlier. Berlin. We had Barnes' metal arm trapped in this giant vice, my idea," Sam says, and something about that sets Tony off and makes him snort loudly, and if he doesn't choke on his food, it's only by a miracle.

"Okay, sorry, my bad. Go on."

Sam leans in, one elbow on the table and his chin propped on the back of his hand. "He tells us there's more where he came from. You know, other Winter Soldiers just like him. Steve goes, _If we call Tony,_ and I say, _He won't believe us,_ because I didn't think you would, and then we agreed that even if you did, the Accords wouldn't let you help. I know you went there anyway, but this is also the truth. That even though you were at odds at the time, his first impulse was to call you, and if he didn't, it was only because we didn't think Ross would stop breathing down your neck long enough for you to do something. Hence the team, not to fight the rest of you, but to deal with what we thought was a real threat."

"I figured that out," Tony says, swirling his glass of sparkling water. "Later, but I did. It's good to hear, though." It would have been better if he had known it then, but he's trying to be zen about it. And besides, he's not lying. It's still good to hear it from Sam.

Sam crosses his arms, smiles, and then he goes, "Good to know, because then you'll want to hear this. He missed you." He drops it just like that, like it's something that logically follows from what he said earlier. The total entropy of an isolated system never decreases over time and there's milk on the fridge. It doesn't make a lick of sense. "I don't mean to meddle more than I have to and that's all I'm going to say about it, but if there's something you should know, it's this."

"I highly doubt he told you that," Tony says instead of pretending he didn't hear a single thing like he should.

_I will miss you, Tony._

Just words, nothing more.

"No, he didn't. But he carried that phone everywhere. We would be in the middle of a mission, lying low, and then he would reach for his pocket, make sure it was there. I don't think he even realized he was doing it."

"That's not—that doesn't mean anything. It's like saying he took a bullet for me, specifically, when that's a bullet he would have taken for anyone, let's be real. That's who he is," Tony says apropos of nothing, and he's beginning to do that thing where he laughs and he doesn't really mean to laugh, he's just uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and a little desperate, because he's been clinging to this very fact from the beginning, because it's the cornerstone of this theory he has about how, deep down, Steve only wants forgiveness so he can stop feeling like he didn't measure up, to be a part of a team once again instead of feeling adrift, not to lose his sorry excuse for a home because he's come to realize it's better than nothing, and a long list of other things, none of which are Tony.

Sam gives him a look. "Come on, I know you're smarter than that."

"It can't be. He took off of his own free will, don't you know?" Tony breathes and smiles a tight smile and shakes his head because Steve doesn't mean it. He can't. Tony has decided he doesn't. It's just an optical illusion, every time it seems like he wants him.

But what if it's not?

That's the million dollars question, isn't it? What if it's real? He's made do with far lower odds, he knows he has, starting with the way he survived that ticking bomb lodged in his ribcage. All he had to do was work under the assumption that it was possible, to fashion his own salvation out of scraps. Can he do it again? Is he willing to take another leap of faith?

If he lets himself believe it and it's not real, it's going to kill him. One more heartbreak and he's going to come apart, and he doesn't think he's strong enough to pick up the pieces this time. He can't risk it. Experience tells him that everything he's hungered for has never wanted him back, not in the end. It has happened so many times already.

"People are complicated," Sam says like he's used to giving free advice together with pizza. "One thing doesn't necessarily negate another."

Tony gives into the thought for a millisecond. _He left you. He wants you._ Funny how everything seems less nonsensical when he doesn't make one the proof of the other's impossibility. Below the table, he hugs his arms until he can feel his fingernails sinking into his skin through his clothes.

"It's easy to write people off because of one single moment. Sometimes it tells you all you need to know, case closed. Other times, it doesn't tell you the whole story. You're the judge of that."

"Fine, let's say that a part of him regretted leaving and that he missed being in the general vicinity of me, who knows why," Tony says, clearing his throat and rolling his eyes like he's just humoring Sam, which he is. "Then what?"

"Your call," Sam says.

Tony arches one eyebrow. "You're not going to tell me to hurry up and make up with him? Hug it out?"

"Nah."

"You sound like a shitty friend," Tony says, and Sam barks a laugh. Tony looks down and fiddles with a napkin. "I know you're not, I was just—I say things, sometimes. You've done a lot for him. I know that."

"Hey," Sam says. _Hey,_ just that, but it still goes a long way towards making things less awkward. "I know what I'm rooting for, inside. He's a good man and he's gone through some heavy shit and I think he deserves to be happy. And I could tell you, yeah, what happened in Siberia did a number on him too, he didn't walk from there without a scratch. But I'm not here to get you to forgive him. That's something that should happen on your terms. I'm just offering another point of view in case you need it."

Tony opens his mouth and then closes it. It's just not an everyday occurrence, someone doing something for him without wanting something else in return. "So, what," he says, not meeting Sam's eyes, "are you going to eat the last slice?"

Sam laughs and says, "Be my guest."

The ride home is uneventful. Sam is at the wheel because he offered and Tony tags along because he wasn't in the mood to fly the suit right now, even if he could pass out inside and still make it home in one piece. Instead, he settles on one corner of the quinjet and busies himself with reading reports about the casualties. There's people in serious but stable condition, not yet out of the woods. He lets himself hope. It's all he can do and he hates it, not being able to do more.

It means he's a little moody afterwards, long after they get home, long after he and Sam have parted ways. He's dead tired and he should take a shower and go to bed, but he takes to roam the compound like a ghost instead. He ends up in the kitchen, takes a water bottle out of the fridge and presses it against his forehead, and then against his eye.

"Tony? You okay?"

Steve.

He wants to say that no, he isn't. _You're one of the reasons, actually._ For one, he wasn't expecting to run into him just now, not without having time to process everything that went down today. But fine, it's not like life has ever waited for him to be ready for things. 

"Pretty much always," Tony says, bracing himself against the counter. Somewhere down the road he's come to accept that Steve cares about him. It's there in his voice, an edge of concern. But from there to actually wanting him, well, that's a whole different animal.

_Yes, he stuck his tongue in your throat because he cared so much,_ Tony thinks, even if that's a mischaracterization, even if Steve was sweeter than that when he kissed him back.

Desire, then. It's not the first time people have wanted to get in Tony's pants despite his laundry list of character defects. It's never been much a problem. You don't need to like someone to fuck them, after all.

Said people never told Tony they wanted to chase after him, though. They never said the world would be worse off without him. They didn't almost get into a spat on national TV over what others said about him. They never got him herbal tea because he had just had a nightmare, for God's sake. They never remembered Tony hates to be handed things. They never tried so hard to get in his good graces just because they missed him. They never stayed.

And all of this within the last couple of weeks.

When there are so many signs pointing one way, it would be negligible to ignore them, that's all. The tenets of scientific inquiry so demand it and the introduction of bias from the get go makes for sloppy science. He'll keep his eyes open, is all he's saying, nothing more, nothing less.

Steve crosses his arms and leans against the door. "Sam told me about the rescue."

"We did what we could. I'm not sure it was enough, there's people in the ICU," Tony says, turning to see him. He's still in the suit he was wearing when he left for D.C. this morning, sans the jacket. He looks great. Tony looks and feels like shit. "This shouldn't happen, Steve."

"I know, Tony." He gets closer, rounding the kitchen island so that he can be at Tony's side. "Are you okay," he says again like he's expecting something honest this time around.

Tony no longer has it in him to be a smartass about it. Well, much of a smartass, in any case. "My head is throbbing. Other than that, I'm peachy."

"You didn't take anything yet?"

Tony blinks. "Take what?"

" _He didn't,_ " FRIDAY says, and wordlessly, Steve goes to fetch the first-aid kit they keep on one of the cabinets, takes the painkillers in one hand and reads the label. Because he still has the bottle pressed against one side of his face, Tony is left staring at him through one eye.

"D.C.," Tony says, remembering. "Did that go well?"

"To the chagrin of almost everyone involved," he says, and then he blatantly ignores him to ask FRIDAY if that's the correct dosage, which she confirms. He sets two pills on a napkin and then slides it over.

"Thanks," Tony whispers, a little dazed. He takes the pills, then a sip of water, and just as he's finished swallowing, he feels Steve's fingers on his cheek. _What,_ Tony's mind goes.

Steve is— _wearing the watch he gave him_ —inspecting his eye, if he can call it that, and he's careful not to prod, only brushing his fingertips against his skin, which is a little ridiculous. It's not like he was punched by the Hulk. Last time he checked, his eye was only slightly bloodshot, but the way Steve is touching him, you'd think he's been left disfigured or something. Tony stares and doesn't lean into the touch.

After what feels like a long time, Steve finally realizes what he's doing. "Sorry," he says, letting go of Tony at once.

Tony, who most definitely doesn't miss the warmth of Steve's hand, narrows his eyes at him. "Are you?"

Steve smiles, looking sheepish. "No," he says with a shake of his head.

What do you make of that? Tony doesn't know and he doesn't have the capacity to deal with this right now, so he doesn't. "Anyway, I gotta," he says like that makes sense on its own and begins to walk away.

"I was thinking," Steve starts, one hand pressed against the napkin Tony left behind. "I was thinking we should discuss what's coming."

He's right, actually. Now that the Accords are no longer a concern, this is what they should be focusing on.

"Much as I want to, I can't right now, I'm dead on my feet," Tony says, and Steve takes one step in his direction. "I won't actually fall down on the way, relax. Come find me tomorrow after I'm back from SI. I've got a meeting. FRIDAY knows the details and can tell you when I'm back."

"All right, I will come find you," Steve says, and Tony does his best to ignore how that sounds like a promise.

 

 

"We're going downstairs," Tony says before Steve can get a word in edgewise, going right past him with the expectation of being followed. Steve would have found that grating once upon a time, but now he only smiles to himself and keeps pace with him because it's easy enough to do and Tony knows it.

Tony does turn once in front of the elevator's doors, as if he wasn't really expecting Steve to be right there, one step behind. Steve looks right back at him, and Tony's eyes shift away from Steve all too fast like he's embarrassed. "How did the meeting go?" Steve asks, hoping to distract him.

"Fine, same old," Tony says with a quirk of his mouth. "There's talk of a new Stark Expo."

"That would be nice. Especially on account of me missing the previous one," Steve says quietly.

Tony's fingers are quick on the screen as he selects an unspecified level. "I don't think you really missed much. Besides, being surrounded by a bunch of unfamiliar things might not have been the best field trip activity for someone who was just getting used to the 21th century," Tony says, and his voice is far too soft for Steve to take it any other way than him being kind.

"I would have wanted to help," Steve says, closing one hand into a fist away from Tony's line of sight. "I'm just always late. You were—"

"Dying? I got better," Tony says with a shrug.

"If you had, I would have never met you," Steve whispers, and it takes all of his strength not to reach out and hold him. "Please, don't say _I wonder._ "

"I wasn't going to," Tony says, frowning, which means he would have. He fiddles with his tie for long enough that Steve stops staring, not wishing to make him feel uncomfortable, and that's when Tony adds, "I don't regret it."

Steve raises his eyes. "Going through all of it?"

"Meeting you," Tony says just as the elevator opens with a ding.

They go through a few more security protocols like this is one of the most guarded secrets in the country, which it might as well be, and then everything begins to take shape. The scope of the place is vast, a replica of the facilities above ground, and then more.

They walk by empty rooms, pristine and untouched, their steps echoing against the walls, and for all that there are many details that suggest the idea of comfort, only one step away from lived-in, everything feels suspended in time like a still life painting. Like the compound, before the new team made it his home, before Steve did. A home without Tony. An oxymoron.

"Was all of this always here?"

"It was far more spartan, with a focus on leftover gear and supplies. I made renovations ever since, inspired by Wanda's vision at the time. The giant Vision-shaped hole she left behind," Tony says by way of explanation. For a moment, he looks pensive. "You missed the height of it, but bunkers used to be in vogue well after World War II."

"The Cold War," Steve says. Different eras, the same fear. The end of the world as we know it. "Is this place supposed to be that, a shelter?"

"Better to have it and not need it than the opposite," Tony says. "It sure makes for a better hideout than one glaring target of a building pointing at the sky. Come along."

They reach the armory, and no, leftover gear doesn't even begin to cover it.

"My version of doomsday stockpiling," Tony says like this is just another pastime of his and not the massive undertaking it must have been, and Steve's eyes go wide taking everything in. He settles on the suits at the center of it all, which would look perfect and ready to see action if not for the fact that they lack Tony's signature colors.

"It's not Ultron," Tony says preemptively like there's an accusation in the making. "There's nothing here even remotely like it."

"That's not what I was thinking," Steve says, but there's still something about it all that's beginning to get under his skin. Tony has it wrong, though, because it's not Ultron that he's reminded of, but of Fury showing him what SHIELD kept behind closed doors. The comparison seems unfair. None of this is meant to do what Project Insight would have, but the feeling is similar. He feels small, all of a sudden, dwarfed by everything Tony has made to keep them safe.

"You're still looking at me like I'm nuts. This is me _sharing,_ Steve. I thought that's what you wanted. You left and I've been preparing for everything I can think of. What else was I supposed to do? I made gear for all of you in case you came back, but yes, I did consider the possibility that you wouldn't, not in time. I'm trying to be open here and you keep doing the same thing, _judging,_ and this is exactly why I didn't—"

" _Tony._ Tony, slow down," Steve says, holding up his hands. "I didn't even say anything. You go too fast and I can and _will_ catch up with you, I just need a minute."

Tony wrinkles his nose and doesn't look at him. "Okay."

"Okay," Steve says, letting his arms fall at his sides. "I don't think you're crazy. I just feel like I'm a small child, sometimes, watching the things you're able to create. That's it."

"Why would you feel like that?" Tony says.

"Because I can't do the things you're able to do," Steve says, smiling and looking around as if saying _Can't you see it?_ "Because strength alone won't get you anywhere unless you know what needs to be done, and you do, you've made the world better. You've created things I would have never thought of in a million years, not on my own."

_Because even if I hadn't done what I did, I don't think I would have stood a chance. I wouldn't have been able to hold your interest for long. How could I have?_ It comes back to him now, how it felt to know himself lacking, to feel it in his bones. How it felt to be dirt poor and have nothing else to offer because he wasn't big enough, strong enough, good enough. The one thing he had working in his favor was not knowing when to give up, and even though he's keenly aware of all of this, he can't stop wanting him.

"You've got to be kidding me. Strength alone? You're much more than that. They didn't fucking turn you into a symbol just because you're pretty. You gave people _hope._ You made them think they could be _better,_ " Tony says, furious and shaking, and Steve should probably be flattered, but all he can manage is to feel dumbfounded. "Me, I'm only resourceful and desperate, and when you are, you do everything you can. You do everything in your power when you want to protect what you—" He takes a breath, swallows. "When you want to protect it.

"Do you know what I saw? Do you know what made me grab that scepter and play God? Did Wanda tell you? I saw all of you dead and it was on me," Tony says, voice strangled, and Steve's heart is breaking. It's different to hear it from Tony, to know for sure that it still haunts him to this day. "You said it. You were dying and you said it, that I could have saved you all, that I should have done more, and you were right. I was so close. It felt like I was, but I was only kidding myself. I fucked up so very badly. I was supposed to turn over a new leaf after Afghanistan, but all I did was to compound on my fucking mistakes. Maybe I should've never made it out of that—"

"Tony, _no,_ " Steve says, firm, catching him by the elbows, rubbing his arms up and down, taking so many liberties. "I'm sorry. I really am."

Tony blinks and shakes his head. "What the hell are you sorry about? You're not the one who destroyed the lives of hundreds of people."

"I've fucked up too. I failed people. I failed you." _I made your life so much harder, and even if that had been the only thing I did wrong, it would be enough._ "I'm sorry I made you believe I was the kind of asshole who would say that. I lie dying and the last thing I do is to make you feel guilty for not doing more? What a bastard," Steve says, and now he's the one who's getting angry while Tony looks at him like he doesn't get a word of what he's saying, eyes bright and wide open, and Steve is terribly sorry. "I'm always making you feel like you aren't enough, like what you do isn't enough, but that's not true. We would be lost without you. I tried getting used to not having you around and I couldn't stand it. I didn't want any of it. What would I even do without you, Tony."

Tony lets out a shuddering breath and steps away from him. "You would keep going."

Steve flinches. God, is he never going to believe him? "Tony."

"I don't mean it like that. I get it, you would miss . . . having someone to butt heads with. It's just—it's what any of us should do, keep going. What else can we do?" Tony says, looking down. He hugs his arms, following the path Steve's hands did, and then he holds his head up, stands straighter. He's always been brave, braver than most people give him credit for.

"I'm thinking," Tony says, and he's pacing the way he does when he gets restless—quick, small movements, all of him in motion. "Not to get biblical on you or anything, but we don't know neither the day nor the hour. All we know is that it's coming from outer space, and I— _Fuck it,_ I used to dream of reaching for the stars. And now, well, I'm not looking forward to it, but I've got the suit and I know how to do this. I'm going to go up there and do whatever I can to stop it, but if I fail, it's on you to make sure everyone has a chance. I'm sorry. But you won't have to go at it alone. You have friends. You have a good ally in T'Challa."

"If you fail," Steve says stupidly.

"I don't have a death wish, despite all evidence to the contrary. But if I do fail, then—"

"Don't talk like that. Just, don't talk like that."

Tony stops to look at him dead in the eye. "You, more than anyone, know what war is like, Steve. Sometimes choices are made for us."

"I don't care. You go and you come back and we do this together," Steve says like he's a spoiled child, and he doesn't know why he's being like this. He's not green. He knows people die. Good men die all the time. They slip away like sand. He knows this. It's etched into his bones.

" _Everything,_ " Tony says, raising his voice and clutching his hand, the one closer to his heart, "everything critical requires some level of redundancy, a backup, a plan B with better odds than the first, and you're mine. If it comes to that, I'll go knowing you'll do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe."

"You know I will," Steve whispers. There's a goodbye in all of this, and he won't stand for it, he can't. If that's how things end, if one of them goes before it's time—

They could have had a few good years, if he had told him the truth. Maybe Tony wouldn't have cut him out of his life as he feared and instead of heartache, they could have made good memories once the storm was past. Maybe Tony would have told him about Ultron before it was too late. Maybe Steve would have realized what he felt sooner. Maybe he could have had him. They could have been together for years, by now, if Tony had said yes.

"I'll do everything you ask of me, but Tony—"

Steve steps closer. Tony tilts his head up just slightly to look at him, and he—he has lovely eyes, a lovely face. Steve wants to kiss every line, every curve of it, but he can't move. He doesn't know how he found the courage to reach out and touch him yesterday, how he dared presume he was allowed, but whatever strength he had then is gone by now. They're so close they could touch foreheads if only Steve was a little braver, close enough that he can feel his breath against his skin and see how Tony's chest falls and rises in sync with his. This could be their last chance and he doesn't know why he can't move.

Tony closes his eyes, breathes out, and takes a step back that feels like a hundred miles. "If it comes to that," he says, and his voice is hoarse but he doesn't bother correcting it, "I hope you're safe in the end. I hope you win. And I hope you live a good life, Steve."

He sees Tony walk past him out of the corner of his eye, he barely registers it, and even then he feels cold, colder than he's ever been. Steve turns on his heel and grabs Tony's arm, adjusts his grip, tries to be as gentle as he can.

Tony's eyes are so damn bright. "You don't want to make things more complicated than they already are," he says, slipping away from Steve's grasp and taking it all with him, every chance, every little thing Steve has banked on because hope dies last and all he's done ever since he came back is that, to hope.

Steve watches him leave. It's all he ever does. Steve left once, but Tony's been leaving since the beginning without ever looking back, and even though he doesn't think he's being fair, it hurts. Tony went away after New York, and then after Sokovia, and now he's gone and done it again, leaving him alone with the ghosts of all the things that have never been.

He's cold, he's shuddering with it, and all he wants is to hide somewhere and lick his wounds, but the thing is, he's never known when to give up.

 

 

Tony presses his knuckles against his chest, feeling the shape of his ribs underneath.

" _Nothing out of the ordinary,_ " FRIDAY says, and he smiles at that, mirthless. Psychosomatic bullshit. He's too old and tired to be heartsick.

He thinks, if Steve had kissed him, he would have given in. He wouldn't have known how to put up a fight anymore. Tony laughs to himself, at himself. He believed it for one moment and it wasn't true _enough,_ they were just words, and in spite of it all he's still alive. It didn't kill him.

His breath hitches and he braces himself against one of the large windowpanes to calm the fuck down, and the glass is cool against his skin, it steadies him, and then FRIDAY says, " _Captain Rogers is here to see you, boss._ "

"What?" His whole body jerks, and then he screws up his eyes and breathes in and out. "What does he want? What can he possibly want now?" Tony says, and then, "Don't ask him that."

" _Should I tell him you're unavailable?_ "

"No, just— Alright, let him in."

The door opens and Steve comes in out of breath, like he's ran miles. The compound isn't big enough for that, Tony's room isn't at the end of the world. He doesn't get what's going on.

Steve closes the door behind him without taking his eyes away from Tony, and then he . . . doesn't say anything. All Tony can hear is Steve's harsh breathing, and he would worry, except he's too keyed up for that, stuck in a fight-or-flight loop.

Fight wins.

_Did you come here just to gape or what?_ Tony thinks, and it feels cruel. He's like that, he lashes out when he's hurting, he says dumb things like _Everything special about you came out of a bottle,_ things he doesn't mean. But this time he actually bites his tongue and waits even if he finds it hard to remain still, because if Steve came here, looking like this, maybe what he needs to say is something Tony ought to hear. Other than that, he doesn't hope. He doesn't have it in him anymore, he can't.

"Erskine told me something. The day before the procedure," Steve says, and Tony's mind supplies, _The day before he was killed,_ because he's heard the story from his father, from Peggy, about how Abraham Erskine was shot right after the serum worked. He's just never heard it from Steve.

"He dropped by late at night with a bottle of schnapps and two glasses. I didn't drink any of it. _No fluids,_ he said, and then he drank it all on his own," Steve chuckles and shakes his head, smile tight, and Tony forgets all about his own aching heart because he can't stand it when Steve is sad. "There was something on the radio somewhere, faint. I could hear crickets too, they were so loud. It was just the two of us and it was before the serum, but I remember everything so clearly.

"He tells me about Schmidt. Tells me how the serum makes good become great and bad become worse. He says that a weak man knows the value of strength, knows compassion. He says, _You must promise me one thing._ That I should stay who I was, not a perfect soldier, but a good man, and I don't think I've always lived up to that promise, Tony. There are many things I should've done better. So many things. I've tried so hard, and it's not an excuse, but I'm not perfect. I wish I was a better man, I _thought_ I was, but I'm not."

"You should have told that to my dad," Tony says, and he regrets the words right after they leave his mouth. Steve deserves something else entirely. He deserves to know about Yinsen, all about him, and also about how Tony's not worth the sacrifice he made.

"Howard didn't know anything," Steve says, stepping closer, and Tony lets him. "The Steve Rogers that Howard knew died before he had a chance to fail. You've seen me fail. You've truly seen me fail, you've seen me at my worst, and you didn't cast me aside. And I keep thinking, maybe there's a chance. Maybe I still have a chance. I don't want to fail you ever again, Tony. Please, please let me try."

Steve reaches out to cup his face and it's nothing like it was yesterday. He looks like he's going to bolt any minute now, his whole body tense like a coil spring, but he still runs a thumb along Tony's parted lips and he _smiles,_ shivers a little. Tony likes the way he smiles, he always has. "I'm gonna kiss you," Steve says next like he's giving him fair warning and Tony wants to laugh at that, but in the end he only looks at Steve, at those blue, blue eyes of his and the way they flutter shut. 

Before closing his eyes, Tony gets a glimpse of him from up close. He sees Steve bump his nose against his cheekbone, touch his forehead to his, sigh against his mouth. And then they're kissing. Steve cradles his head, buries his fingers in his hair, kisses him tender and then hard, and then tender again like he can't make up his mind about it.

Tony runs his hands down Steve's back, trying to spell it without words, _Easy, there's time,_ and he angles his face, draws one hand to cup Steve's jaw. It's easy to have Steve follow his lead. It's always been easy for them to find their own kind of rhythm, something that works, and it's not different now.

He fists Steve's t-shirt, pulls him closer. They take small breaths in between and come together again. His heart swells, it drums in his ears, and when they pause to really catch their breath, Steve nuzzles his cheek.

"You're still mad at me. You said you were." Steve's eyes are still closed. His arms are wrapped around Tony's back, his waist. "I can take it. Your anger."

Tony blinks. "What do you mean?"

"I was remade into someone who would endure most things. If, if you want to make it hurt. Whatever you want. I can take it."

_You think I'm the kind of asshole who would do that to you,_ Tony wants to say, but none of it will go past his lips. He would laugh if only he wasn't reeling, because isn't that funny? Even in this, Steve can't help thinking the worst of him. "You don't know what you're offering."

"I think I do," Steve whispers, and Tony pulls back at once and walks to the other side of the room because he doesn't need to get told twice. If Steve gasps and reaches out blindly for him, Tony doesn't pay heed.

"Very well, then. _Strip._ "

He knows his voice sounds colder, detached, and Steve stares at him, blinks and blinks like he doesn't understand what just happened, but he's the one who wanted this. "Well? I thought you meant it. Going back on your word already?"

Steve winces but reaches for the hem of his t-shirt all the same, lowering his eyes, and Tony says, "Look at _me._ " Steve complies. He snaps his head up and his Adam's apple bobs up and down before he pulls his t-shirt over his head and throws it on the floor.

"I didn't say stop," Tony says, breathing hard, but Steve's chest is heaving, arms limp at his sides like he's got no defenses left, and the thought is like a punch to the gut. He's offering his heart on a silver platter, and all Tony can think is, _If I wanted, if I took the effort, I could scoop it up, crush it, get away with it._ The sole idea makes him dizzy. It's unsettling, knowledge he doesn't know what to do with.

Steve begins to work on his belt next but he's clumsy, he's _nervous,_ he's never nervous, and he's forced to look away from Tony to see what he's doing, shoulders hunched and brow full of wrinkles and mouth closed shut after one whispered _Hell._

"Stop right there," Tony says, walking towards him.

"Did I do something wrong?" Steve asks, miserable, and Tony hates how small he sounds, he hates himself, he hates everything.

"Goddammit, Steve. Never, _ever,_ do anything you're uncomfortable with for anyone."

"It's not anyone, Tony, it's—"

He picks up Steve's shirt and shoves it against his chest. "I don't care who the fuck they are! _For anyone,_ Steve!" Tony shouts, nostrils flaring, and all Steve does is to let his stupid t-shirt fall again to catch Tony's hand. "What did I just say?"

"But I do want you, Tony," Steve says, bringing Tony's hand against his lips, kissing the heel of it, the veins on his wrist. "What are we going to do about that?" His voice is pitched low, breathy, his eyes half-lidded, and he's a cheeky little—

He cradles his face again, and then Tony feels all of Steve's bravado crumble. His fingers are trembling, Tony feels it against his skin like a shot to the heart. Steve leans in, places one hand on Tony's hip, pressing his thumb against the bone, and Tony tilts his head back, meets him halfway, gives in.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He feels unstrapped, weightless, and at the same time, with his arms wrapped around Tony like they've always belonged there, he knows he's safe._

What they're sharing is not a dance. It's too quiet for that, here in Tony's room. There's not the hum of machinery he's come to associate with the lab, nor the rock music Tony likes to listen to when he's hard at work. There's only silence, but they're swaying to their own beat nonetheless, a rhythm marked by Tony's breathing and his own, by the rustle of fabric as he runs his hands down Tony's back, by the sound of his heartbeats, so loud they almost drown everything else. Touching him does this. It drowns everything. It makes the world outside these four walls seem smaller, distant.

Tony's teeth tug on his lower lip as he breaks the kiss. "I can't have you on top of me in case that's going to be a problem," he says, and it's matter-of-fact, except for how it isn't. His voice is mostly steady, machine-gun quick, but he still lets out a shivery breath at the end of it that reminds Steve of Siberia, of the smell of iron and rust and mildew, of secrets laid out in the open under that cold sun.

"It won't be," Steve whispers, holding him without meeting his eyes because this is his fault, one more thing Tony can't bear, and then Tony steps back only to hook one leg behind Steve's and make him tumble on the bed.

"Watch your legs," Tony says with a smirk even if his eyes are still bright, a little glassy, and Steve loves all of his contradictions, the different shades he's made of. He loves, with a steadfast kind of wonder, all the possibilities that flicker in Tony's eyes, all the ideas that war inside him vying for his attention because he's complex, an interlocking puzzle, everything that Steve wants.

"You've said," Steve replies, and he thinks of Tony going through the footage JARVIS kept of their missions, eyes trained on Steve as he picked up this detail and a dozen others, coffee going cold between his hands.

"But you never listen," Tony says low, and then Steve can't think straight anymore because Tony's body is pressed flush against him, his mouth soft and hot against Steve's neck, making him lose all sense of time, of space. For all he knows, he could be on a makeshift raft drifting away from shore. He feels unstrapped, weightless, and at the same time, with his arms wrapped around Tony like they've always belonged there, he knows he's safe.

The tip of his fingers throb against the small of Tony's back like a heartbeat. He wants to make Tony feel good, to know what makes him tick, what drives him wild. Steve's entire body is vibrating with the need to touch, and playing by ear, he runs his hands along Tony's sides, and then below his vest, untucking his shirt, following the curve of his hips. Tony's thighs are firm underneath his very nice dress pants. Steve feels the muscles flex under his touch, and then he cups his ass, squeezes lightly, and _God._

He grunts, and the sound sends a shiver down Steve's spine. Tony kisses his mouth and then his jawline, working his way up, and then he nibbles at his earlobe before he rises. Like he's made of stone and not of rubber like Steve feels, he braces himself against Steve's body and rises. Steve feels the warmth of Tony's hands on his bare chest, the way Tony drags his weight along Steve's body as he lifts his torso, pressing down on his groin until he's sitting on Steve's lap.

Steve breathes through his nose, bites the inside of his cheek, worries his lips. Tony brushes his thumb against the curve of his mouth the way Steve did before, says, "You don't have to be quiet if you don't want to," and Steve wraps his mouth around Tony's knuckle without really thinking, runs his tongue along the pad of his thumb, the callused ridge just below it. He's breathing hard against Tony's hand. He doesn't know what he's doing. He looks up at Tony, waits for a sign that he's doing all right.

" _Steve,_ " Tony says, languid, and Steve takes Tony's hand and presses it against the pulse point on his throat so that Tony feels it, so that he has no doubt about the jackhammer beating of his heart below Tony's fingers.

Tony rolls onto his side and Steve feels bereft, his chest heaves at the absence. But they're still mostly clothed and Steve does want to touch all of him, so he's patient. He tries.

They undress with quick, economical movements like they're getting ready for a mission, only backwards. Tony steals kisses from him as they do, his eyes roam all over Steve's body, setting him alight. All that's left in the end is Tony's shirt, his tie. Steve works on the latter, then lets the fabric slide between his fingers until it falls on the floor without making a sound. From there on, he follows Tony's cues, says "May I?" as softly as possible because he's afraid of doing something wrong.

Tony nods, but he's too still, too quiet, so Steve works on the buttons at the bottom of his shirt, lets Tony meet him halfway if he so wishes. Carefully, he parts Tony's shirt, pushes it behind his hips. Tony is half-hard against his thigh, and Steve can't help himself, he leans in and gives an open-mouthed kiss to the head and then to his soft stomach, to the trail of hair just below Tony's navel.

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, arches his body at this little something, and Steve's got him, one arm around his waist. Sweat is beginning to pool there, all along his spine. "I don't think you're nearly as shy as you seem," Tony says, his voice husky in a way that doesn't seem practiced, and Steve is hot all over in a matter of seconds.

"It's all you. All of it is because of you," Steve says, and Tony kisses him, takes his breath away, presses one hand flat against Steve's shuddering body and traces a path down Steve's belly before he circles his length, before he rubs his own erection against Steve's in one slow, torturous slide.

Steve buries his face in the crook of Tony's neck to muffle a cry, and Tony slides one arm under Steve's head, strokes his hair like this kind of gentleness is something Steve has earned through sheer yearning, and he knows at once that this is how he'll die. He'll wake up and find himself hard and alone in his empty bed any second now and he'll die.

But none of that happens. Tony is still there, a thoroughly warm presence. His warmth brings color into him. For a while, he forgets all about the dull, grayish white of Siberia and thinks of golden things, of the sun painting the tips of Tony's hair a lighter shade of brown, of the liquid caramel of his eyes when the light hits him just right, of his sun-kissed skin.

"Tony," Steve says because he doesn't know what else he can say to convey everything he's feeling. _I've missed you. God, I've missed you so much._ He's desperate to say it, but he's afraid Tony will remind him whose fault was that, so he mumbles it against Tony's neck, against the strip of bare skin framed by the collar of his shirt.

"I'm here with you," Tony whispers in his ear, kisses his temple, and Steve imagines having more time than they have. He wonders how long it would have taken him to win Tony's trust back, how long until Tony let Steve see all of him, how long until he earned the right to kiss his scars.

He holds onto the ridges of Tony's shoulder blades through the soft fabric of his shirt, follows the curve of his spine past the small of his back. Tony sighs, brushes his fingers over Steve's arm in a light caress, lets his hand linger over the place where there would be a scar if only Steve were more human, closes his eyes. Steve, in turn, can't stop looking at him, at the way his lashes shadow the skin under his eyes, the little groove on the tip of his nose, how easily his hair begins to curl when it's damp.

_I could make you happy,_ he dares to think. He tries to believe it himself when he mouths each word in absolute silence. _I would try my damnedest to make you happy, Tony. I would live the rest of my life trying._

Oblivious to it, Tony wraps one leg over Steve's and moves against him. Steve is filled with a slow, sweet kind of pleasure, and still, he wants to have more of him, to have everything. "I want—" he blurts, breathless.

"What's that," Tony whispers, and when Steve doesn't reply, he says, "Tell me what you want," just like that, like it's in his power to grant Steve's every wish. For all intents and purposes, it is.

The words rush out of Steve's mouth. "I want you inside me." His ears ring, and he looks down at the way Tony's fingers leave their place over Steve's heart to cup his face.

"You don't— Are you sure?"

"I thought about you," Steve mutters, forcing himself to look into Tony's eyes without wavering. It's not shameful, none of this is. "Ever since that day. I thought about you, and I—" He can't bring himself to finish the sentence, but Tony knows, Tony must know what he means, what he's leaving out. _I touched myself thinking about you._ He doesn't know how he can feel self-conscious when they're lying in bed naked, when he can still feel the warmth of Tony's flesh on his lips. "More than once. I imagined it was you, your hands, I thought of— I know what I want."

Tony's eyes are dark, his lips a little swollen, glistening. Steve did that. "If you change your mind," he says softly, and he's still stroking his hair, being gentle with him. Steve wants to cry.

"I _won't._ " He clears his throat. "I won't change my mind."

"Not a habit of yours, I know," Tony teases, his voice fond. "But if you do."

"I'll tell you."

In answer, Tony kisses him just below his right eye, on the side of his nose and along his jaw, mouths something Steve can't quite catch on the hollow of his throat. His eyes flutter closed. He thinks it's _Beautiful,_ what Tony said, and slowly, he comes apart in his hands.

When he opens his eyes, he sees Tony turn to the nightstand. He opens the drawer, produces a bottle, and then simply stays perched on the border of the bed, being oh so very quiet. "Tony?" Steve calls softly, but he neglects to answer.

Steve rounds the bed, kneels in front of him, sees Tony working on the rest of the buttons of his shirt, leaving just the one. Steve's fingers hover over it. He wets his lips, but they still feel dry. "May I?"

Tony snorts this time. "You may," he says, raising his eyebrows.

Miniscule dots left by a rigger brush, the feel of tracing paper below his fingers, delicate things. Steve thinks of all of this before he undoes that single button, before he dares to breathe against Tony's chest.

"I won't break if you touch me," Tony says, only slightly exasperated, but Steve still wants to be careful. He begins by taking the nub of Tony's nipple in his mouth, sucking on it. He smiles when he hears Tony curse under his breath, leaves a trail of kisses until his lips pick up the rugged feel of scarred skin. It's not as noticeable as he thought it would be, but it's still there, a ring of white little tendrils that match the space the arc reactor used to occupy.

"I don't feel— Some of it is numb," Tony says, and his breath comes a little quicker. Steve takes his hand, brushes his thumb along Tony's knuckles over and over again, and Tony squeezes his fingers like he can't help himself.

"Does it hurt?" he asks.

"No. Hardly ever. Only once in a blue moon," Tony whispers with a quirk of his lips, and Steve feels his eyes sting. He swallows, and very gently, he kisses Tony's chest, following the soft indent of his breastbone. Feather-like kisses.

He looks into his eyes. Tony looks unguarded, his mouth slack. Steve kisses him there too, not long after he's pressed his fingers against his lips, and Tony answers not in kind, but with something that's pure heat. They pause to breathe, ragged, and Tony says, "Climb back on the bed and lie on your side for me, sweetheart."

No one's ever called Steve that before, not like this, not without trying to mock him. He kisses Tony just for that, smiles at him, gives him one more peck, and only then he does as he's been told.

Tony's got a wrapper in one hand, a small square of a thing, and Steve blurts, "I don't think we need— Not on my part, at least. I can't give, catch— _The serum._ And as I said, I haven't even— Only if you want to."

How can Tony get anything out of that blabbering mess, Steve doesn't know, but he says, "You don't want me to use one." He's watching Steve very closely, brushing his hair out of the way.

Steve's face is hot, but he won't back out this time. "No," he says.

"As you wish," Tony says with a hint of a smile, leaving it over the nightstand. There's one last rustle of fabric, and then Tony is embracing him, all skin and warmth, tangling their legs, kissing his nape, the narrow space between his shoulder blades.

His goatee tickles a little. His mouth lingers on the exact spot where the bullet went through even if there's nothing left. Steve's body can't keep a single reminder of all the things he's traded off along the way, the cost of getting that 1A stamp. But Tony remembers for him, leaves a kiss on his back that feels like a brand mark, presses his hand against Steve's stomach, covering the patch of skin along the edge of his ribs.

"Was it around here?" Tony asks very quietly, and it takes a few seconds for Steve to understand what he means. D.C., the first time around. It had been a messy wound. If he hadn't been who he is, he would have bled to death.

"Yeah. Still mad I didn't ask you for some gear?" Steve says, trying to keep his voice light, but it still feels like he's pushing it, like he doesn't care about teasing Tony like this, when in truth, he's afraid of hurting him again even with something this small. He's just clumsy when it comes to him. He's a fool. The only thing he wants to know is what this means, that's all. All he wants to know is what he really means to Tony, to hear it from his lips.

"Mad I couldn't do anything to keep you from getting your ass handed to you," Tony says, trying for nonchalant, except he's holding Steve like he might disappear.

_That's why that uniform belonged to a museum,_ Tony had said with a tsk over the phone. In contrast, the one Steve had used for the raid on HYDRA's research base had still been light but reinforced, and back then it had been easy to tell himself that Tony was only trying to prove a point along the lines of _I told you so._

"You really don't hate me," Steve breathes.

"You think?"

He huffs a laugh, twines his fingers with Tony's. It still feels like he's dreaming. He never thought he would get to have him for real, even if he wanted it fiercely. Because he wanted it that much, perhaps. He never thought there would be room for the way Tony is with him right now, gentle where Steve had been rough, blunt. But it's not a surprise, it's just like him. He likes taking care of others, Tony does, and he's very careful with Steve.

He keeps dropping kisses on his skin even as he pushes one slick finger inside him, and Steve shivers despite the fact that the lube is warm, pleasant to touch. He can't help it. It feels like an intrusion, it always does, but it's one he wants more of. Tony's fingers are the right kind of thick, they're perfect, and Steve is hard and aching. He could touch himself while Tony works him loose, but stubbornly, he only buries his face into the pillows and fists the sheets.

"You don't have to be careful with me. I can take it," Steve says, choked.

"Well, I _want_ to be careful. And it's not a challenge. It's about enjoying it," Tony says, working another finger inside him, hitting just the right spot, and Steve can't help the moan that escapes from his mouth, nor the way his hips buck against nothing but air. "Are you enjoying yourself?" Tony asks. He can almost hear him smirk.

"Please," Steve rasps in answer to he doesn't know what exactly. "Just, please."

Tony makes him turn slightly so that they're facing each other, one hand on his hip to make Steve hitch his leg over one of his, letting his fingers slide to caress the inside of Steve's thigh once he has him where he wants. His fingers are shaking. Steve feels every little aftershock, the way Tony's breathing quickens. He tilts his head and breathes Tony's name, seeking him out. Tony answers at once, kissing him without holding back, and Steve could come just from this, from the heat of Tony's body, from his touch, from the taste of him.

Tony pulls back, strokes himself once and then again, eyes half-lidded, and he's never been more beautiful. Steve is spellbound, caught by all of him, by the way Tony's fingers draw a pattern right down Steve's middle, diagrams stripped down to the bone. His nails catch, and then he feels him.

Steve gasps and closes his eyes and thinks of the younger him, the smaller him, of the dreams he had, of how there were days when he was certain he was one harsh winter away from dying before someone touched him like this. He would laugh at himself, but he can't breathe right.

"Easy," Tony whispers.

"You're real," Steve says. His voice sounds off-key, misshapen. Tony moves inside him, slow, careful, and all Steve feels is heat coursing through him, behind his eyelids, coiling on his belly, going down his spine.

Tony hums a yes, kisses Steve's shoulder, and then says, "Does it feel like I'm not?"

Steve smiles just before his breath catches. His toes curl against the sheets. "It feels like you're very real."

Tony reaches out and strokes him from the base to the tip, his thumb teasing the slit. Steve clenches his jaw, then parts his lips to let out a moan. Tony's hand slides back down, tightening his grip, and he's still thrusting into Steve, harder now, each movement unbroken. Steve writhes in his hold, he's clay in his hands. He won't last long, he can't.

He comes with white filling all of his vision, a perennial ice stillness that masks everything but the thudding of his heart, the way it thunders against his chest, climbing to his throat, and he feels himself gasping for air, shivering without being able to stop.

"Steve. _Steve,_ " Tony says softly, and little by little, he remembers that he's warm, in safe hands. He sags against the mattress, all the tension leaving him in stages. He feels heavy, boneless. There are droplets of sweat running down his temple and into his hair. The palms of his hands are damp. A few more thrusts and Tony's following right behind, going limp beside Steve.

Tony reaches out for him, caresses the inside of his arm, and Steve curls against Tony's body, seeking warmth. Tony runs his fingers through his hair, kisses the corner of his eye, lingers. Steve doesn't know when he shed a tear, only that he did. Tony's lips pick up the track of it down to his cheekbone, and it's a little embarrassing, but Tony doesn't seem to mind. He's gentle even now, and for a moment, Steve dares to hope he might be allowed to stay.

"Hey," Tony says.

Slowly, Steve comes to himself, opens his eyes. Tony is the first thing he sees, the way his eyes dart from side to side, never quiet, the way his chest keeps heaving. Steve takes Tony's hand in his, kisses his knuckles, the knob on one side of his wrist, the tendon running into his palm, pulled taut the moment Tony closed his hand into a fist, and it's Steve who mouths it against Tony's skin this time, "Easy."

They kiss. It's lazy, sloppy, uncoordinated, but he thinks he feels Tony smile in between, and it kindles something inside him, the idea that he's had a hand in making him happy, even if it's just a little, even if it's just for a little while. Tony sighs, and Steve wraps his arms around him, pulls him into an embrace. He hopes Tony can feel the same kind of warmth he did when Tony held him. He hopes he can be that for him, more than the sum of all the memories he has of Steve, more than every misunderstanding, each hurtful word thrown his way, all the times they fought.

_I could make you happy._ The thought comes to him again. It's never really left. _I really think I could._

Tony catches his lip between his teeth. It's already become one of Steve's favorite things, and he lets out a shuddering sigh. "You like that?" he asks.

Steve nods, and tucking his face into Tony's neck, he smiles against his collarbone. He holds Tony tighter. They breathe, almost in sync, simply touching each other. A brush of skin here, a circular pattern there, fingers running from shoulder to elbow and then back up. He maps Tony's body, taking the time to learn each landmark. He imagines fine black dust on Tony's skin, fingerprints dotting his body. A study in charcoal of him.

Tony looks down, his lips set into a soft curve. "You're hard again."

"Oh," Steve says, because that's true. "I'm sorry."

"That's not something you have be sorry about," he whispers like he's telling a secret, and then they're kissing again, a press of lips that grows into more.

It's Steve who breaks the kiss. "But you're not. We don't have to—" Tony touches him and whatever point he was going to make gets lost somewhere down the line. He's panting against Tony's cheek, brushing his lips against his jaw, holding onto his arms.

"Few extra years under my belt. Doesn't mean I'm not in the mood," Tony says, arching an eyebrow. He's suave, and it's not that Steve wasn't expecting it, not when it's exactly the kind of thing people would expect from him, from Tony Stark. But as many things tonight, it's a first for Steve, and he can't help that little twitch right against Tony's hip.

Heat spreads on his cheeks, his neck, down his torso. "I'm—"

"Let me help," Tony says, one hand pressed against Steve's middle. Steve wraps his fingers around his wrist, strokes the back of his hand, lets Tony push him against the pillows. From there, Steve looks at him and sighs, expectant.

Tony's lips curve before he kisses Steve's chest and then his stomach, teasing goosebumps, and Steve commits to mind the lines of Tony's body, the way his muscles ripple before he lies on his belly between Steve's legs, breathing against his skin.

This is what it feels like to lie bare and be completely at his mercy. Tony's fingers dig into the flesh of his thighs before he takes him in his mouth, and his heart begins to pound, his breathing goes shallow. "Tony," Steve gasps and reaches above his head, swatting at the headboard without meaning to, clutching at the sheets just to have something to hold onto. He wants to take Tony in, all of him, but everything feels too good to keep his eyes open for longer than a few seconds at a time.

Tony brings him close to the edge and then slows down, dragging his lips down his shaft, circling a finger on the puckered skin below, and Steve arches his back, chasing the feeling. "Tony, I can't—" His voice sounds so strangled he barely recognizes it as his own. "Please," he manages, because he'll come quickly this time, embarrassingly fast, and he clenches his stomach, tries to delay the inevitable, but Tony's mouth is hot and wrapped tight around him, his tongue skilled, and before Steve knows it, he's coming, his whole body pulled taut and quaking.

Tony swallows. Steve feels his throat work, feels the shape of his mouth wrapped around him even after Steve's been spent, feels him kiss the tip as he sends pins and needles all across Steve's skin.

"Easy. Breathe," he hears Tony say gently, but Steve doesn't know how. It doesn't feel like he can't get enough air into his lungs. He gets a glimpse of Tony, of the milk-white droplets on his lips, on his goatee, and he feels shivery, lightheaded. He raises one hand to thumb Tony's smile, and then lets it drop because even this feels like too much effort. His head is wrapped in cotton wool. His limbs are leaden.

Tony catches his hand. Tony's got him, he always does. Steve sighs and lets his cheek rest against Tony's palm, drifts for long enough that next time he tries to keep his eyes open, he sees Tony sitting next to him, wiping his skin clean. His touch is gentle, thorough. "Where'd you go?" he mumbles.

"I'm right here. Sleep," Tony says, leaning in to kiss Steve's brow, and Steve wants to tell him so many things, but in the end he does as he's told. 

"Stay," he whispers, and then he lets sleep claim him.

He dreams, or at least he thinks he does. None of it remains after he wakes up, but he feels warm, at peace, no heavy weight on his shoulders. He remembers, all of him does. It's the first thing that takes a definite shape in his mind, something he can voice.

_Tony,_ he thinks, then startles until he notices the dip of the mattress barely an arm's length away. Tony is there, he hasn't left. His breathing is even, soft. He's facing away from Steve, his back laid bare, sheets pooling around his hips.

He reaches out, he can't help it. He presses the tips of his fingers against Tony's flank, drawing warmth, and prays for a miracle. Tony doesn't jerk awake nor does he shrink back like he's been burned, like Steve feared. But after a while he can feel him stir and hold his breath, releasing it ever so slowly before he moves, before he pulls away from Steve's touch and gets out of bed.

Steve sits up at once. There's that old ache taking hold of him, burrowing into his chest. There's something else too, easy and certain, warmth that spreads effortlessly underneath his skin upon seeing the shape of Tony's body, a body he knew and held in his arms.

He remembers. The opposite is impossible.

Silently, he sees Tony shrug on a robe, black silk sliding over his olive skin; sees his fingers—fingers he's felt inside him—pick up the ends of the belt; sees the fabric hug his waist, accentuating his hips. Steve steels himself, grasping the sheets. This is where Tony will tell him that no, he's not allowed to stay.

"Scratched your itch, Captain?" Tony finally says without even facing him.

Steve reels like he's been hit across the face. "Is that what this was to you?"

"What if I said it was?"

"You used to be _much_ better at pretending, Tony." His voice falters, but he doesn't care. Tony was gentle, he touched him like he was something precious, he—

It can't have been a lie. It can't.

"If you want me to go, I will. But please, don't lie. Please, just," Steve says, his breath catching. He looks at his clothes strewn on the floor, and for the first time, he feels naked, small, ashamed. _Please, look at me,_ he thinks, but Tony feels far away, out of reach, the distance between them unbridgeable.

Something changed while he slept. God, he shouldn't have fallen asleep. He was such an idiot. He should have kept him company, he should have talked to him instead of thinking there would be time come morning, he should have held him, he doesn't know why he didn't, and now he's lost his chance. It's over.

Shake it off. Go back to the real world. He crouches on the floor, gathers his clothes in his arms, begins to dress in silence.

"I just don't think this is going to work," Tony says then, voice rough, and Steve drops his t-shirt, his shoes. The soles echo against the floor, but he doesn't pay heed, neither of them does. Even in the half-light, Tony's eyes are bright. He takes a seat by the window, looking at the wall instead of meeting Steve's eyes. His profile is set against the dim light coming through the windows, and Steve can't stop looking at him, at the shape of his lips, at the soft curve of his nose. "Don't you think? Even if all of it hadn't happened, I don't think we would have worked. I'm too old for you. We come from different worlds, you and I. We're like oil and water. There's a reason why we always end up the way we do, clashing."

Steve shakes his head. "That's not what we—"

"I'm sure FRIDAY could show you some numbers," Tony says with a shrug, hands tucked inside the pockets of his robe.

Steve zips up his jeans, and then he steps closer. "No, _you._ You give me those numbers," he says, raising his voice a notch, emboldened. He can't lose him. He can't afford to lose him, not after this. "Is it a one hundred percent certainty, Tony?" 

Tony frowns. "That's not something I can really—"

"Are you sure?" Steve asks, gentler now. "Are you completely sure that I don't have it in me to make you happy?" A sigh goes past Tony's lips, and Steve looks at him as if he held his whole future in his hands. He does, he really does. "If you are, If you really are, I swear I won't bother you anymore."

The cadence of Tony's voice as he explained something Steve hadn't gotten a handle of yet, the white blue light of his old arc reactor. Soft things, delicate things. He thinks of all of it before he asks again, his words barely a whisper.

"Are you?"

 

 

Tony watches him sleep. He tucks an arm under his head and basks in the delight that is to simply watch over Steve, his mind quiet, for once, full of him. His face is slack, untroubled. He looks peaceful like this, so much younger, and Tony can't help himself. He runs his fingers through Steve's hair as gently as he can manage, lets himself be weak.

_Please, just this once, let me keep this,_ he thinks, and his heart begins to race. _I'll be better, I'll do anything, I'll earn it._

It's stupid. There's no one listening out there. There's no way to tip the scales of the universe in his favor, either. If karma existed, he would be completely screwed. All those fuck-ups to his name, one mistake after the other, and that's what he does, doesn't he? He fucks things up. He would ruin this too, with his fears and with his pain, with his chronic inability to be the kind of person someone would hold onto for good.

Silently, he gets up. He doesn't look at Steve again, he doesn't dare. He pads to the bathroom, runs the shower, hides like a coward. The water is warm, but he lets it grow tepid, just shy of cold. He shivers and shivers, blinking fast, water trickling down his face.

_I won't change my mind._

Steve can't know that. No one has a way to envision a future this fickle, not even him, and yet—

Tony presses the heel of his hand against his scars. He smiles briefly, an involuntary tug of his lips that he does his best to quash. It's childish, juvenile, but he can remember it so clearly, the warmth of Steve's lips on his skin, and of all things, this is what grounds him. He allows it this time, towels in silence, and pointedly, he avoids thinking of how Steve's touch lingers no matter what he does.

The bedroom is just as he left it. Steve is still fast asleep, curled into himself, facing the side Tony left vacant, one hand outstretched.

Tony turns away sharply and stands before the door leading to the closet. He could leave. He probably should. He could barricade himself in his lab, at least, or even fly himself somewhere else. All he would have to do is _walk,_ leaving Steve to wake up on his own. It would be enough of an answer, perhaps. Enough, if he's lucky, to put an end to this.

He brushes his fingers over the cuff of a plain button-down, eyes a jacket and jeans, eyewear to match, and he knows that he won't be able to go through with this. Instead, he makes his way back and sits on the mattress, twisting the sheets in one fist. He closes his eyes and breathes, and tries, again and again, to convince himself that this is for the best. 

He's tired of carrying bruises, to hold his chest open and wait, motionless, helpless, until someone comes to mess him up inside. He needs simple things, easy things, anything but this, and what Steve needs, _deserves,_ is everything but cleaving himself to someone like him, old and weary. He needs someone he can start over with, no baggage hanging between them, someone who won't remember at times, like Tony does, what it felt to get his heart broken by him.

But God, he's selfish. He discards the robe he'd been wearing and lies back down, sliding under the covers, facing away from Steve. They aren't touching, but he can feel him. His body, radiating warmth, the sound of his breathing. He closes his eyes and pretends that he can keep this, at least for a while longer.

He sleeps. He doesn't mean to, but he does. He can't account for the time that went by without him noticing, but it's still dark outside. The difference is Steve's touch, the warmth of his fingers pressed against Tony's side, and he comes fully awake, heart thumping, breathes in and out. _It's for the best,_ he remembers. There's a plan. He's got to stick to it.

He gets up, picks up the robe from where he left it and looks through the window. The world is quiet, hazy. There's no fixed point he can set his eyes on, nowhere to hold onto, so he steels himself, stands straighter and says, "Scratched your itch, Captain?"

A sharp intake of breath comes behind him. He can hear it clearly, feel it in his bones. "Is that what this was to you?" Steve asks.

_Yes, that's all it ever was to me._

_No, it was everything._

"What if I said it was?"

"You used to be _much_ better at pretending, Tony," Steve says, and ah, that's true, but all Tony can focus on right now is how badly Steve is trying to sound angry, except he only comes across as wretched.

Absently, Tony rubs his knuckles against his sternum. He wants to roll his eyes and say, _It's not a big deal. It's just me. You'll meet other people, someone who suits you better._ And then, there's the small part of him that wants to get away with it, the part that goes _Mine_ and _Don't you dare to walk away_ and _I'm bullshitting you, why can't you tell?_

"If you want me to go, I will. But please, don't lie. Please, just," Steve says, and Tony should have never let it get this far to begin with, except he wanted to, needed it like breath. He's got a plan, and it's currently slipping through his fingers, but maybe he can still work with it, sell things the way he used to, make Steve believe that this was what Tony intended all along. To use him, only to discard him later. 

He could say, _You see, revenge is a dish best served cold, Rogers,_ take his wallet and throw a few hundred-dollar bills at him, thank him for the night. He could be cruel, let Steve think he's always been right about the kind of man Tony is. Not a hero, but a bastard.

But he can't bring himself to do that.

He can't.

"I just don't think this is going to work," Tony says, turning to face him, and he hates how weak he sounds. Steve drops all of his things, his brow lined with wrinkles, and Tony can't even look at him without feeling like yielding, so he doesn't. He looks away and flops down on a nearby chair because he's exhausted, in fact. He feels unsteady, like the wind has been knocked out of him. 

He goes through his options quickly. Plan B, Appeal to Reason, and he almost wants to laugh because see how well that worked in the past, but it's all he has left. "Don't you think? Even if all of it hadn't happened, I don't think we would have worked. I'm too old for you. We come from different worlds, you and I. We're like oil and water," Tony says, trying to convince Steve, and maybe, if he repeats it enough times, he'll believe it himself. "There's a reason why we always end up the way we do, clashing."

"That's not what we—"

"I'm sure FRIDAY could show you some numbers." A whole model, everchanging variables, and always, the same outcome. He sticks his hands in his pockets and clutches the lining, wishing he had the strength to send Steve away so that he can finally have his pathetic meltdown all by himself.

"No, _you._ You give me those numbers," Steve says like the stubborn fool Tony should have expected him to be. "Is it a one hundred percent certainty, Tony?"

He should say yes, but all it comes out from his mouth is, "That's not something I can really—" He's weak. He's got a weak heart and an even weaker resolve.

"Are you sure?" Steve asks, and Tony knows he's got an answer ready somewhere, it's there up his sleeve, _We won't work, not like that, not in the long run,_ and that's when Steve speaks again. "Are you completely sure that I don't have it in me to make you happy?" 

_Did you fucking have to phrase it like that,_ Tony thinks, and then he sighs, remembering the feeling bubbling inside him as he held Steve in his arms.

"If you are, If you really are, I swear I won't bother you anymore," Steve says, and why does it matter so much what Tony believes, anyway, if he's the reason why things always go wrong. 

"Are you?"

He's aware of time passing, of him letting it slip away like a fucking idiot. It's a complicit silence, and before he can do anything about it, Steve is closing the distance between them, kneeling at his feet. He places his palm over Tony's knuckles, molds his fingers around the shape of Tony's fist. His hands are warm even through the fabric, gentle.

"You're not. That means I can still hope," he whispers, and Tony snaps his head up.

"Do you have to be such a raging optimist?"

"Yes," Steve says. "Yes, because it's you. I have to. I must."

Tony frowns. " _Steve,_ " he says, and it sounds like a warning.

"You're scared," Steve says, undaunted. It's not a question, and the truth of it makes Tony bristle and want to walk out on principle, but Steve has a good hold on him. He isn't letting go. "I'm scared too."

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?"

Steve chuckles, and deep down, Tony melts at the sound. He loves his laughter, rare as it is, and the way his eyes light up when he's happy. He wants to touch his face, to brush his fingers under his lashes, right where his skin puffs a little when he smiles, but he keeps his hands to himself. "We can't mess things up more than I already did."

"There's always so many possibilities," Tony says, and maybe he wants Steve to fight him on this, to fight for this, for him. He sounds like a spoiled child. It's still what he wants, to matter.

"Go ahead and tell me that among all the possible futures ahead of us there's not a single one where we work. Say that to my face and I'll say, _Bullshit._ "

"You can be insufferably cocky, sometimes," Tony says, and he doesn't think he's doing a good job at hiding the fondness in his voice.

"I'm scared shitless," Steve says with a shaky little smile he's trying his best to keep from crumbling, and right this very moment, Tony loves him. "I know you don't feel completely safe with me, but if you can trust me with your life, do you think one day you could trust me with your heart? I would wait. I would always wait for you, if you wanted me to."

"You don't understand," Tony whispers, looking at Steve's hand wrapped around his. He's always loved beginnings. It's the loose, messy ends that he's afraid of. "Perfectly good people have tried before, in spite of who I am, and I—"

"No," Steve says, cupping his face. His palm is warm, just a little clammy, and Tony feels a pang in the middle of his chest. He's not making this easy, he knows, but it's not on purpose. He's just scared. "All the people who ever loved you, loved you not in spite of you, but because of who you are. Ask me how I know."

Tony doesn't ask, but his heart begins to beat hard enough that he wonders if Steve can pick it.

"I think you know it, too," Steve says softly, and then he offers him a smile. "Did you sleep enough?"

"Not nearly as much as you did," Tony retorts. Jokes, the easy way out. He's just out of his element, feeling a little detached from this reality where Steve just said, in other words, that he—

So, jokes.

Steve smiles, a little bashful, pink coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears before he clears his throat and says, "Spare bedding?"

"Closet," Tony says, and before he knows it, Steve is setting the pillows aside, stripping the bed. He gets a glimpse of the wet spot they mostly avoided thanks to the mattress being wide enough, and that's when it hits him. How real it was, this thing between them, and how domestic it feels, how frighteningly _normal,_ to watch Steve change the sheets for clean ones before he sets to make the bed with ridiculous hospital corners.

Tony wrinkles his nose. "I won't have you tucking me into bed, too."

"But you know I would do it gladly," Steve says, raising one eyebrow, both pulling his leg and being truthful. It's the funny thing, now. Tony has no doubt about the last part, not anymore.

"Don't threaten me," Tony says, and there you go, there's bantering too, and even though he keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, nothing really happens.

Steve remembers to put on his shirt, _finally,_ to fetch his shoes and lace them with those long fingers of his, and once that's done, he kneels in front of Tony again. He takes Tony's hand in his, kisses his knuckles, and then he gives Tony that slightly crooked smile he gets whenever he's about to act like a little shit. "You sure you don't want me to stay until you fall asleep?"

Tony smirks. "Get out of here," he says under his breath, and for a moment, neither of them move. All they do is stay close, sharing an easy, comfortable silence.

"Right," Steve says, and just before he leaves, he turns one more time to steal a glance at Tony, looking for all the world like this will be the happiest walk of shame of his life.

Tony laughs to himself and shakes his head. It shouldn't be this easy. He suspects it really isn't.

But for now he goes back to bed because it's still early, he nestles his head on the pillows and breathes, brushing his fingers along the virtually wrinkle-free linens, Steve's handiwork. _So, that happened,_ he thinks, pressing one hand flat against his chest.

It really did.


End file.
